


Hell Is Empty

by ashotofjac



Series: Hell Is Empty...and the Devils Are Here [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Awkward First Times, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Lots more characters that I haven't tagged, Romance, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Tourney at Harrenhal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 75
Words: 198,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashotofjac/pseuds/ashotofjac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still unmarried and unbetrothed, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen is urged to find a bride at the tourney at Harrenhal. With King Aerys growing more unhinged as each day passes, the Dragon Prince must secure his line in order to overthrow the Mad King. </p><p>Lyanna Stark is chosen to wed the prince, much to her displeasure, and must leave the North to play princess with the dragons. But she quickly learns that the fire burns deadly in the royal family, and winter has no place in King's Landing. </p><p>Hell, she finds, is empty and all the devils are at Court.</p><div class="center">
  <p>    <b>COMPLETED</b><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Rhaegar: 21 years old  
> Lyanna: 15 years old
> 
> The title is displaced from the Shakespeare quote: "Hell is empty and all the devils are here." A sinister line to fit the sinister players.

"You asked for me, Your Grace?" Prince Rhaegar Targaryen craned his neck to look up at his father, whose wild eyes seemed to scatter and twitch every which way. 

At the foot of the Iron Throne stood four Kingsguards, gleaming in white armor, and the king's beloved pyromancer, dressed in green rags that would be befit a peasant. 

Aerys sneered down at his son, the billowing arms of his red robe impaled with the tips of a dozen blades. "I did. Lord Whent has written that the tournament is prepared for, and will be held two months from today."

Rhaegar inclined his head, knowing another, secret raven was likely at his window at that very moment. His separate correspondence with Lord Whent had been private knowledge that only himself, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Oswell Whent, Lord Whent's brother, were privy to. "Very good."

Aerys eyed his son. "Heed my warning, boy, if you do not choose a bride by the end of this godsforsaken tournament, I will remove you from succession and sit Viserys here myself!" By the end his voice was shrill, his curling nails caught in the spiked throne their ancestor built for great rulers to come. Rhaegar wondered what Aegon the Conquerer would think of the brittle, decrepit monster that the realm now called "king."

"I understand, Father." There wouldn't need to be such drastic measures though. He'd find a bride at Harrenhal, and once he had an heir, he would remove his father as king. 

It was the only way to avoid the Seven Kingdoms burning green to the ground. The king's fetish for wildfire had, at first, been scattered, pinpointed only to livestock and the trunks of rotting trees. As each day passed, the king's excitement for burning focused on the criminals that littered the dungeons, and after that, peasants that had committed only petty crimes. Rhaegar had nearly vomited the first time he saw a beggar child burn for stealing bread. 

"Go now," Aerys barked. "Be out of my sight!"

Rhaegar bowed, striding from the room with his closest friend and confidant, Arthur Dayne, falling behind him like a shadow. Only when they were both inside the prince's private chambers did they speak. 

"He's getting worse," Rhaegar murmured. He felt tired down to his bones, a weary ache that echoed through him. "Before long the entire realm will know of his madness."

Arthur grimaced, meeting the eyes of his worried friend. "What will you do?"

Rhaegar sighed, opening his window to allow in the raven that waited there. "First, I will find a wife." He unrolled the parchment that had been attached to the bird's leg; Arthur came forward to feed it corn from the small bowl at the desk. 

Rhaegar quickly read the message. "Lord Whent writes that he has invited all seven of the Great Houses, as well as the important vassals." Something akin to relief bloomed in his chest. He'd been planning this for nearly a year, writing back and forth with the Lord of Harrenhal about gathering the nobility to discuss the overthrowing of his father's rule. 

To the king and anyone dedicated to his reign, the tournament just appeared to be a grand way to boast the Whent wealth, a way for the crown prince to choose a suitable bride. To Rhaegar and his loyalists, it was the first step in becoming king and establishing his line. 

"Two moons," Arthur muttered, staring out into the darkening sky. His Kingsguard vows forbade him to think ill of the king and to obey mindlessly, but as Rhaegar's closest friend, he was in full support of the prince overthrowing his father. 

A few dark souls still remained obedient to the crown, however, and it was becoming more and more difficult for Rhaegar and his supportive Kingsguards to hide their true allegiances. 

_Two months_ , the prince thought to himself, _two months til Harrenhal and the road to my reign will begin_. 

* * *

"Are we going?" Benjen jumped on his toes, excitement radiating from his every pore. 

Lord Rickard Stark glanced down to the invitation, reading the middle paragraph again. "The royal family will be in attendance," he said aloud. 

If anything, Benjen's excitement mounted. "The Kingsguard will be there then. And the prince. Please, Father, let us go!"

Rickard sighed. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

His son's demeanor deflated, eyes watering instantly. The boy was fourteen, a year younger than his only sister and nearly a man grown, but he had the heart of a child. "So I must stay here while everyone else goes South?"

Rickard allowed himself a small smile. "If Brandon agrees to keep you out of trouble while at the tourney, I will stay behind in Winterfell in your place." He rather preferred it anyway; it gave him time to solidify allies. 

Catelyn Tully was already promised to Brandon, his eldest and heir, and Lord Robert Baratheon would either decline or agree to the betrothal once he met Lyanna. Rickard could trust his three sons to ensure that if his daughter and Lord Robert met at Harrenhal, nothing unseemly would happen. Even in Winterfell, rumors of Baratheon bastards flew rampant. 

Benjen wrapped his father in a hug and ran from the room, taking his piercing energy with him. Alone, Rickard thought of the future of Westeros, and how it sagged beneath the king's rapidly declining mental stability. He and a few other lords of the Great Houses were in agreement that should it come to it, they would ready their banners and storm King's Landing. 

If only the damned king would die and his son could take the throne. The Dragon Prince was revered across the lands, knighted and well read, a perfect specimen for rule. It seemed madness lengthened a man's life though, and Rickard wasn't sure if the realm would still be standing if they waited for King Aerys to pass away. 

His mind drifted to his daughter, Lyanna - a wild child-woman of the North, growing infinitely more beautiful by the day. She had the Stark look: dark hair, silver-grey eyes, and a narrow face with high cheekbones. He'd rejected half a hundred marriage proposals for her, waiting for the right one that could further their strength and make Lyanna happy. 

From Ned's stories of his fellow ward, Lord Robert was a joyful man of rugged build with the black hair and blue eyes characteristic of Baratheon blood. Ned had no doubt that his friend would love Lyanna upon meeting her, and then the Starks would be aligned with three Great Houses: the Tullys and Baratheons by marriage, and the Arryns by fostering. Should it ever come to war with the crown, the Starks would be ready. 

Rickard pored over the letter once more, the words of his House pounding in his head. Winter was truly coming.


	2. A Lord and a Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, adultery/extramarital affairs will **not** be factors in this story.

Harrenhal was a charred ruin of epic proportions, each of its five main towers reaching into the sky like the fingers of a giant's grasping hand. The castle was alive with activity, servants rushing past with bolts of cloth and platters of food, squires sprinting back and forth with curved pieces of steel in their grip, lords and ladies languidly strolling the grounds.

A majority of the attendants had arrived the week leading up to the tournament, camping in the sigiled tents set up in the vast fields beyond the castle's walls. There was Baratheon yellow and black, the crimson of Lannister, a leaping trout of the Tullys, the sun sigil of the Martells.

The only Greats that were missing were the Arryns, high up in the Vale; the Greyjoys, sulking in their sea fortress; and the Starks, the ancient Lords of Winter who ruled lands that took up over half the realm.

Rhaegar would need the Northern lords' support if he was to take his father down. He had the allegiance of the Whents, the Daynes of Starfall, and House Martell if Ser Lewyn could convince his sister, the ruling Princess of Dorne, to pledge aid.

He was unsure of who Tywin Lannister would campaign for, but given the Lord Hand's most recent squabble with the king, Rhaegar was positive that he would have the support of Casterly Rock at his back soon enough. 

That just left the Starks, who were soon to be allied with House Tully through marriage, and were already tied with House Arryn through the fostering of Lord Rickard's second son in the Vale. With Winterfell's fealty, Rhaegar could easily take the throne and put an end to the mad reign of his father.

"Do you think the Starks will come soon?" He found himself asking, rare impatience darkening his tone. 

Lord Walter Whent, a man of rotund frame, stroked his short beard. "Lord Rickard wrote to me he would be sending his four children. His heir, Brandon, is expected to meet you on behalf of his father."

Rhaegar nodded. That was good, very good. Still, he was nervous. The tourney was only a day away, and the Starks were nowhere in sight. He needed every portion of his plan in play, or everything would fall apart at the seams.

"How is the king today?" Lord Whent dared to ask.

Rhaegar suppressed a grimace. His father had insisted on accompanying him to the tournament, paranoid beyond belief and needing to have some semblance of control. With nearly a majority of the realm gathered in one place, mad Aerys felt threatened. _If only the king knew how right he was_ , Rhaegar thought to himself.

"The king is...as well as can be," he supplied vaguely, stopping to admire a lovely golden horse that was rearing against the hold of a frightened stableboy.

"Ah," Lord Whent hummed, "it looks like the Starks have arrived."

Fifty grey direwolves snarled across bolts of white banner cloth, rippling in the wind as the majority of the Northern party rode to the tent fields. A few Stark riders passed through the gatehouse.

"And there is Lord Brandon, heir of Winterfell," Lord Whent said quietly, pointing out a large man with wavy dark hair and a vulpine face. "His two brothers, Ned and Benjen, and their sister, Lady Lyanna."

It was straddling a black horse that he first saw her, grey dress hiked up around her pale thighs as she urged her horse across the grounds. Her face was lifted to the sky, awe spreading in her smile as she soaked in the ruinous magnificence of Harrenhal. Her fur-trimmed cloak of grey and white twisted around her as she dismounted, handing the reins of her destrier to a waiting stablehand.

The skirt of her dress swept the ground like a broom, gathering dust and dirt on its hem. She was assuredly of Northern blood - long dark hair tumbling down her back like a wild river, skin as pale as summer snows, dressed in the leather and furs of her home.

The youngest of the Stark boys grabbed at her arm suddenly, twisting around. "Race you to the tents!" He challenged excitedly. 

Mischief bloomed in her expression. "You're on. Last one there is..." And then she shoved the boy, hard on the ground, and bolted. "Stupid!"

The boy quickly climbed to his feet, neglecting the large puffed stains of dirt across his ass, and scurried after her. They disappeared together beyond the castle walls, with nothing left to them but the dying echoes of their laughter. The other two Starks had likewise vanished.

"Your Highness," Lord Whent bent to catch his eye. "The feast will be starting in an hour."

Rhaegar nodded, turning back to the castle to prepare himself. He needed to be every ounce the readied prince for the lords to betray their king.  


* * *

"It's too hot to wear stockings," Lyanna complained. The Southron handmaiden, Jeyne, sent to her by the Whents just shook her head and continued lacing up Lyanna's dress.

It was a pretty thing, she had to admit, one of the several her father had commissioned before she left. Despite his attempt at subtlety, Lyanna was no fool - her father wanted her to look her best and brightest for Robert Baratheon, the man to whom Lord Rickard was attempting to betroth her to.

The dress itself was of royal blue velvet, its bodice tight across the chest and exposing the curve of her shoulders, long skirt flowing delicately from her hips to the floor. Jeyne had insisted on forcing her feet into dainty little sandals of thin leather and gold silk, but Lyanna was persistent in donning her trusty black riding boots.

Relenting, the handmaiden had scowled at the dirty boots before rubbing them with an oiled rag until the leather shone like onyx. Then, she twisted a few strands of Lyanna's hair back and off her face, tucking tiny wildflowers through the small braids. Her work done, she stepped back.

"Beautiful," Jeyne announced sincerely. Lyanna smiled through a grimace; beauty wouldn't do her any good if she was to repel the likes of Robert Baratheon.

Benjen blinked a few too many times when he saw her, mouth opening and closing. "You- you look like a girl."

Lyanna scowled, shoving his arm. "I _am_ a girl, stupid."

They walked together in Brandon and Ned's shadows into Harrenhal's dining hall, a positively massive room with dozens of hearths blazing their heat. Long trestle tables were set up around the edges of the room, leaving the center open for dancing and entertainment. Against one wall was a raised dais, where the Whents and the royal family sat.

The king was hunched over like a wizened wizard, clothed in robes of red. His golden crown did nothing to detract from the matted tangle of his white hair, nor did it gleam above his small, suspicious face. Every so often, he accepted morsels of food from a man Lyanna did not recognize to his left.

At the king's right was his son and heir, the crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. His hair was long and straight like beaten silver, his complexion like a mask of cold marble. His lips were full and pink, a spot of color on an otherwise pale image. The expression he wore was one of complete apathy, even as his father's long, gnarled fingernails grasped at his shoulder.

Lyanna shuddered, thanking the gods she wasn't born a Targaryen. She eyed the prince, wondering if he was just as mad as his father. As far as she was concerned, the apple didn't fall far from the tree, and for all the good looks the prince possessed, perhaps his mind was tainted. After all, his parents _were_ brother and sister.

"Lya!" Benjen gasped, his grey eyes glowing. "It's Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning."

Indeed it was. Standing at the prince's shoulder, the tall man with chestnut hair and Valyrian purple eyes was most recognizable by the gleaming sword on his back, burning brighter than even the stark white of his Kingsguard armor. 

She imagined holding Dawn, the greatsword of the Daynes, wielding it as she slayed the Mad King or some other villianous creature plaguing Westeros. The Kingsguard would bow down to her expertise, the realm showering her with flowers and thanks for setting them free of their insane monarch. The thought brought a pleased smile to her face. 

She and Benjen could be the Northern Knights, the blood of the First Men and of the Winter Kings flowing through their veins, as they cut down enemy and evil alike across the Seven Kingdoms.

"Lyanna," Benjen hissed urgently, ruining her fantasy. "Lord Baratheon is coming this way!"

Lyanna looked up, taken aback by the sheer size of the man as he approached - he was six feet of pure power, muscles cording thickly over his arms and chest. His eyes, blue as the seas of his lands, were hidden beneath a crop of black hair.

"Ned," he boomed, leaning over the table to hug her brother. "Introduce me to your beautiful sister."

At her left, Ned smiled, turning. "Robert, this is Lyanna. Lyanna, this is Robert Baratheon."

She knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was; it wasn't in his personality to be _forgettable_ , the Stormlord, and tales of his lusty conquests traveled to even the coldest corners of the North. 

Still, she inclined her head respectfully, squeaking when he insistently pulled her hand in for a kiss. "Pleased to meet you...my lord."

Robert's eyes seemed to shine like the stars as he grinned down at her, trailing ever so low as to be counted inappropriate. "And you, my lady. I must say, if I'd known you were so beautiful, I would have insisted we met far sooner."

She fought her damndest not to roll her eyes. "That is very kind of you to say." 

His chest puffed as he breathed in deeply. "Will you watch the melee tomorrow? I should think I am in favor to win."

She raised her brows, nonplussed by the cockiness coloring his every syllable. "Then I wish you favor to match your words."

"Might I have yours, my lady? Your favor, that is," he clarified, admiring the curve of her collarbone a little too boldly. 

"No," she said automatically. "It is intended for another."

Ned's calm mask slipped, and only shock was left, but Robert Baratheon was determined. His blue eyes glistened with resolve, and if anything, he appeared enticed, infinitely pleased. Like she'd just joined a game he wanted to play. 

"I will win the melee in your honor then, my lady," he vowed, mouth grinning wide. "But tonight, I would ask that you grace me with a dance after dinner?"

Ice slithered through her. She'd planned to be aloof and uninviting to her potential betrothed, and all it seemed to be getting her was deeper into his good graces. All Lyanna could manage was a weak nod, slumping in her seat when Robert walked back to his own table. 

She was grateful when her brothers talked amongst themselves and to their fellow tablemates; she didn't think she had it in her not to be rude at the moment. With a sigh, she drank from her wine goblet, draining it quickly. Her eyes swept around the room lazily, over lords and ladies chattering incessantly, before freezing in alarm at a point across the floor.

From the dais, Prince Rhaegar watched her.


	3. Three Cravens and a Lord

Lyanna walked beyond the shadow of the castle, acting every bit the ghost of Harrenhal as she absentmindedly ventured into its godswood. The trees surrounded her in thick clusters, tall as giants, but green, green, _too_ green.

The words Ned had left her with the night before kept her stomach roiling painfully into the night and through the morning.

_"Robert is going to accept the betrothal."_

One night, one feast, one fucking dance, and the whoremongering Stormlord already fancied himself half in love with her. Or so Ned claimed.

Ned was a kind and gentle man, a mouse amongst wolves, but Lyanna wanted to wring his throat black and blue in that moment. If only he hadn't made such good friends with the Baratheon man, if only he had been fostered elsewhere, this alliance would never have been proposed in the first place.

Then she could have lived life as the Spinster of Winterfell in peace, spoiling Brandon's future children with sweets and swords.

Of course that wasn't true.

Somewhere, in the deep recesses of her mind, Lyanna had always known what her future would entail. She'd been taught, albeit clumsily by three brothers, a stern father, and Old Nan, that her duty consisted only of being a wife. It was her sole destiny from the very moment she was brought into the world.

But in that specifically childish way of hers, she'd hoped that perhaps if she never brought it up, the idea of her marrying would vanish from everyone's minds.

And look how far that got her. She already knew what would happen. Robert would accompany the Stark party back to Winterfell to accept the proposal, and her father would insist on marrying her to him as soon as possible. And just like that, she'd be plucked like a root from her home and deposited to the South.

She seethed silently, relishing in the way her fury boiled like poison. _I should have been born a man_ , she thought angrily, _the third Stark son._ Then, instead of bearing the responsibilities of a lord or lady, she could have been a soldier or councilor to kings perhaps.

She was a better swordsman than Benjen by far, ten times more talented at the quintain than Ned, and on par with Brandon at riding, who was half a horse himself.

But all these dreams were dust in the wind because she didn't have a cock dangling between her legs.

The heart tree in Harrenhal's godswood was an ugly thing; thick and gnarled, its face watching her in a twist of hatred. More than a dozen marks pocked its surface, dripping red.

Still, she knelt before it like a subject worshipping its king. "Please," she begged it, tears slipping down her skin. "Don't let him have me. Please..."

Later, when the sun was at its highest, Lyanna returned to the tents, sweat and tears coating her face, neck, and chest. That was another thing she'd miss about the North - the obnoxious sun wasn't melting everything on the gods' green earth with its unholy vigor.

Ned and Brandon were gone, but Benjen waited inside her tent, a little wolf pup starved for her attention. "I'm sorry, Lya," he said sincerely when he saw her red face. If anyone knew how deep her unhappiness with Robert Baratheon really ran, it was Benjen.

She sat beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

Ever faithful, he declared, "We'll run away so Father can't marry you off."

Lyanna smiled. "Where will we go?" She asked, entertaining him.

"The Wall," he replied immediately. "We'll cut off your hair and dress you in breeches like Danny Flint, and we'll be the best Black Brothers the Night's Watch has ever seen."

She laughed aloud, eyes shining with a mix of fondness for her brother and a profound longing for his words. "What would I do without you?"

"You never have to find out," he promised. "Come on now. I've waited around for you all morning and haven't eaten yet."

They walked together through the empty tents, swinging the wooden practice swords Benjen had pilfered from Brandon. Empty horns and chicken bones littered the grounds, the air stinking of piss and meat and ale from the night before.

The fields were largely empty as most had gone to enjoy the melee. By proper standards, Lyanna should also have been in attendance to support who would soon be her official betrothed.

She'd die before she gave him that honor.

Because of the quiet, it was far easier to make out the animalistic shrieks coming from behind a large grey Frey pavilion. Grunts and taunts and cheers accompanied the cries of pain, a cluster of voices alternately mocking and laughing.

Benjen and Lyanna ran over, eyes widening upon the scene. Three boys, each representing a different House sigil upon their doublets, took turns kicking and spitting at a curled form moaning in the grass. Their faces were twisted in cruel mockery, mouths gaping and terrible like hyenas.

And just like that, rage ripped through Lyanna like a provoked wolf. "That's my father's man you're kicking!" She roared.

She lunged forward, the element of surprise her champion, and swung her wooden practice sword with all her might into the soft belly of one of the boys. He doubled over immediately, retching into the ground.

She turned on the balls of her feet, and brought the sword down in a magnificent arc across another's back, something cracking upon impact. That one fell onto his stomach, curling in on himself like a snake.

The third boy fell back without her ever touching him, ass landing hard in the grass with a thump. His eyes were glistening with coward's tears as she stalked closer.

She made to whip him across the face with the wooden blade, but he slithered away like a snake, stumbling to his feet. His fellow perpetrators groaned as they did the same, and in a cravenly trio, they bolted from sight.

Chest heaving and nostrils flared, Lyanna watched them go long after there was nothing to see but empty tents and vast green lands.

Someone behind her moaned. She turned and fell to her knees, watching as the victim sat slowly up, pale hands folded over his stomach. Benjen came to her side.

"I must thank you, my lady," the stranger whispered, looking up at her. His eyes were the most peculiar green, like the slime of a swamp, eery and beautiful all the same.

"No thanks is necessary," she assured him. Curious, she studied the bronze scales sewn into the shoulders of his clothes, the shabby material of his dirty green cloak, the three-pronged spear lying useless beyond reach. "Who are you?"

He sat up fully, clearing his throat. "Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch."

Benjen gasped, but Lyanna whispered in disbelief, "So you _are_ my father's man then." She grinned, hardly believing it. "I'm glad you didn't make a liar out of me," she japed lightly.

Howland Reed smiled at her - in a way that made him seem infinitely old, ageless even, as if he knew every secret of the world, old and new, and she was but a child. "As am I, Lady Lyanna."

She blinked, taken aback. "You know my name."

Howland nodded, green eyes turning on her brother. "And yours as well, Benjen Stark. It's the duty of a lord to know the House he pledges loyalty to," he said, suddenly solemn.

Benjen, perpetually curious, always beguiled by the unknown, pressed their new friend. "Is it true that your castle is untraceable? Do you have the greensight? Is there-"

"Benjen," Lyanna said slowly. "Perhaps we should clean Lord Reed up before you pester him with your questions."

Together, they hauled Howland to his feet, wrapping each of his arms around their shoulders. They limped along slowly, just the three of them, but it was no chore. The wind was blowing a sweet reprieve from the hot sun, and there was no Robert Baratheon hassling for her attention.

Benjen's curiosity got the best of him once more. "If you don't mind me asking, why did you come to the tournament? I thought crannogmen didn't leave the Neck."

Howland chuckled, smiling in that all-knowing way. "I thought I might bear witness to a song."

Lyanna's face twisted. Of course the tournament, scheduled for a grand ten days, was rich with singers from every corner of the realm, but...wasn't the point of tourneys to feast your eyes upon the jousting, the warriors, the violent bloodshed? Who wanted to listen to some boring song that could be heard just the same at any tavern from here to Mole's Town?

"What song do you speak of?" She found herself asking, curious of the Lord of Greywater Watch.

He glanced at her, studying her face in a way that a king would assess his knight. "It's an ancient song, older than words themselves. A song that represents the Eternal Summer." His face broke out in a soft smile. "The song of ice and fire."


	4. Steel Wishes and Promises of the Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna: 15 years old  
> Rhaegar: 21 years old  
> Elia: 23 years old

Lyanna frowned, watching Robert Baratheon holler and cheer as his friends encouraged horns of ale into his hands. He'd tossed at least a dozen back, and yet the man was still standing, an unmovable mountain in the sway of drink. She'd been made to dance with him twice over the course of the evening, and at least three times, she'd had to twist out of his far too comfortable grasp.

At his table, Robert's large hands playfully reached for the serving wench's waist, pulling her against him. The girl giggled, eyes glossy with lust as he pressed a sloppy kiss to her neck. Lyanna wondered if he would fuck the girl against the wall outside, or if he would have the decency to take her back to his tent.

Ned fidgeted uncomfortably beside her, every bit a spectator to his friend's debauchery. Lyanna could have laughed at the situation if it weren't so glaringly tragic that this would be her life at Storm's End - a drunk, incapable husband with hands that were always reaching, whether it be for her, a whore, or a kitchen girl.

"There, that one!" Benjen hissed suddenly, distracting her by pointing out one of the three boys that attacked Howland.

The boy he pointed to was large, soft in the face and body, and sitting with the table of House Frey. She remembered swinging her wooden sword into his belly first, the way he crumpled to the ground in splendid pain. They found the other two quickly after that, one in the service of House Blount and the other for House Haigh.

"You should challenge them in the jousting lists," Benjen suggested to their friend, excitement building at the prospect.

Howland frowned, considering it. Some part of him, where his pride resided, thirsted for revenge, but the more sensible part won out. "I cannot ride a horse with ease, and I've never practiced with a lance. I should not bring shame on my people."

Lyanna gave him a small, sad smile. For one wild moment, she fantasized about donning armor and enlisting as a mystery knight to defend Howland Reed's honor. The image of herself in shining silver, viewed as an equal among greats was almost too good to pass up. 

The longer the fantasy played out in her mind, the more Lyanna wondered _why not?_ She could ride, she could joust; all she needed was armor and a different horse.

She tugged at Benjen's collar, leaning in so he and Howland could hear. Then she whispered her idea, the smile on her face growing with every word. Benjen's face was a twin to her own, pure eagerness and exhiliration shining in his grey eyes. Howland was more hesitant, eyeing her strangely.

"My lady-"

"Lyanna," she corrected for the twentieth time.

"Lyanna," Howland amended, "what if you get injured? I couldn't bear it if you were hurt while defending my honor."

Benjen chuckled. "Lyanna won't get hurt. Or lose," he said with complete confidence.

She smirked, imagining herself clad in steel, knocking the knights of Houses Frey, Haigh, and Blount to the dirt. "I need armor," she murmured softly, "and a horse. Not my own."

Benjen's eyes wandered in thought. "We'll scavenge for armor tonight, once everyone's in their cups or passed out in the tents. As for the horse...leave that to me and Howland."

Under the cover of darkness, it was far too easy to thieve from the surrounding House tents. Benjen snagged a rusted helm, a dented but sturdy chestplate, and matching gauntlets. Howland had managed to find a plain wooden shield not yet emblazoned, and a hauberk that would hang from her shoulders to her knees. Lyanna found the rest.

They shut themselves in Lyanna's tent afterward, both boys assisting her in trying on the armor. The chestplate was far too large on her, and the mail could possibly hinder her seat on the horse, but the steel would work. And that's all that mattered.

Benjen brought her looking glass over. "Wow," Lyanna breathed. Each piece of armor was mismatched, a different shade of silver or grey than the next, but the effect of seeing herself in true steel was enough to take her breath away.

"A true knight," Benjen announced, bowing deeply like a fool.

She laughed, glancing at Howland. "I'll need a favor to win," she japed.

But Howland just nodded seriously, reaching into the pocket of the pants he borrowed from Benjen. In his hand was one of the bronze scales that had been sewn into the shirt he arrived with, a shiny triangle dangling from a piece of thread. Howland reached forward, tying it securely to the wrist of her gauntlet.

"There you are, Ser Lyanna. A favor from the Neck."

Benjen smiled. "You won't find anything luckier than a crannogmen's token," he promised. 

She grinned, all teeth and no mirth. Fire filled her, licking at her veins, and she already wished for the morrow - for the next day would see if Houses Blount, Frey, and Haigh would be advancing past their first matches. And if so, she would ride against them.

And win.

* * *

Elia Martell had skin like copper, with eyes as deep and lovely as liquid onyx, and curly hair just as dark. She was a sweet girl, the Dornish princess, with kind words and a glistening smile.

"Will you sign up in the lists, my prince?" She wondered, looking into his eyes as they danced together. Beneath Rhaegar's hand, her ribs were as sharp as knives.

"I plan to," he admitted. His famed black armor had been packed along, and polished by his squire to a brilliance so that it gleamed like dragonglass.

She smiled, soft and gentle. "You will win," she assured him, squeezing his shoulder. Her skin held the notes of Dornish spices and sour oranges, and her Southern dress swished against him.

Rhaegar chuckled. "That is kind of you to say, my lady, but there are many great jousters here. Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan, the Young Lion..."

"And they all pale in comparison to the Dragon Prince," she retorted, something akin to desire shining in her black eyes.

Rhaegar admired her lovely face, imagining Elia Martell as a Targaryen princess. She would be a kind wife, regal and gracious, a true benefit to the royal family. She would love him, that much was certain - what with how she insisted on pressing her chest to his, and looked up at him with the utmost of adoration.

It didn't matter if he would love her; he'd been brought up knowing his marriage would be politically-geared, and he would have no issue wedding her...if it weren't for the fact that she felt so entirely fragile in his hands. Her bones were protruding, the skin stretched thinly over them as they jutted at sharp angles. There were purple crescent moons beneath her eyes, and many whispered of the princess' health.

Elia was certainly old enough to marry, two years older than even him; she was a woman, of an age to bear children, but could her body _handle_ pregnancy? Could it handle three like Rhaegar needed?

He felt a press of guilt slice through his stomach. He hated to think of his future wife like that, _in numbers and fertility_ , but the prophecy demanded it. Mayhaps if he was lucky, he would be blessed with both the children he needed and fondness that so few marriages reaped.

When their dance ended, Rhaegar bowed and kissed her knuckles, stepping away. Elia's shimmering golden gown did beautiful things in the candlelight, and her smile was gentle.

"My prince," she said, "I feel I must retire for the night. Perhaps," she looked down at her feet demurely, before glancing back up, "you could escort me to my room." As Dornish royalty, Elia and her brother, Oberyn, were afforded rooms inside the castle rather than in the tents.

Rhaegar offered her his arm immediately. "Certainly, Princess."

They walked arm in arm from the dining hall, Ser Arthur trailing silently and subtly behind, to the main part of the castle that housed select tourney guests. The corridors were long and dark, and the Dornish princess took that opportunity to hold tighter to the prince's arm. When they arrived at her room, Rhaegar made to step back, but Elia urged him closer. 

With both hands laying softly upon his cheeks, she stood on her toes and brushed a light, barely there kiss to his lips. Surprise flitted through him, rendering him momentarily speechless. Elia grinned. "Good night, Your Highness." 

And then she was slipping through her door, gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lyanna/Rhaegar shippers, do not fret. Elia and Rhaegar will not be a huge portion of this story, just a mild flirtation at the beginning.


	5. Three Times the Victor

The air shimmered with anticipation as the mystery knight rode out onto the grounds, his image one that warranted both wariness and excitement for the commons and nobility alike. 

The knight wore a patchwork of ill-matched armor, no two pieces forged of the same steel, that sagged crudely over his slight frame. On his arm was a freshly-painted shield, bright with the image of a red-and-white weirwood, its face curved with bleeding laughter. 

With a chipped lance, the knight boldly pointed to three champion knights: those of Houses Frey, Haigh, and Blount. Cheers rang sharp in the stands, the people hungry for the mystery knight's challenge. 

Rhaegar sat up straight, leaning forward with a small bit of eagerness. The mismatched armor of the mystery knight hardly put him off; if anything, it seemed a deliberate move on the knight's part. 

He contemplated who was underneath: surely not the slight but strong Ser Jaime Lannister, as his cruel mockery of an induction to the Kingsguard was committed yesterday evening, and he'd been promptly sent to King's Landing afterward. 

_Perhaps it is some lord's third son,_ Rhaegar thought as the knight kicked his heels into the horse, urging it to the end of the tilt. 

At Rhaegar's side, the king was bending his nails into the arms of his chair, eyes wide and wild with distrust. His mouth moved quickly and quietly, muttering dark words to himself. 

The flag was waved and the knights rode at each other, dust flying up from the ground in plumes of red-brown. The tip of the mystery knight's lance forced its way into Ser Frey's chest, sending him flying backward in a swift moment. 

The stands were grumbling unhappily. That match had been almost too easy to garner true applause, the knight of Frey an easily proved weak opponent. 

When the Frey horse was brought forth for ransom, however, the stands hushed, the mystery knight's given moniker dying on their lips: the Knight of the Laughing Tree. 

The Knight of the Laughing Tree cleared his throat, affecting his voice in a parody of deep tones and announced, "I do not want your ransom. All I ask is that you teach your squire honor!"

Ser Frey frowned in distaste, but he took his horse all the same, rounding on his frightened, beady-eyed squire. 

The match against Ser Haigh was largely the same, although the Knight of the Laughing Tree broke three lances against him before Ser Haigh finally fell. When presented with his ransom, the Knight of the Laughing Tree declined once more, requesting only that he teach his squire honor. 

Aerys was murmuring loudly now, speaking of treason and plots and _laughing red eyes._ His mouth was pinched in anger, hands shaking violently as the Knight of the Laughing Tree readied himself to go against his final challenge, Ser Blount. 

The lords and ladies in attendance were itching in anticipation as they kept their eyes upon the mystery knight. Rhaegar frowned doubtfully. 

Ser Blount was of an impressive size, at least six feet tall and large in the shoulders and stomach. _His_ armor was made to fit, to protect, and would serve him all the better for it. 

Next to him, the Knight of the Laughing Tree looked concerningly small, an imp amongst giants. They bowed before the royal box, then galloped their separate ways, each readying themselves at their respective tilt ends. 

The flag waved, and the knights approached each other in a speed of dust, the Knight of the Laughing Tree's lance skimming off the expanse of Ser Blount's chest. King Aerys chuckled hysterically. 

The knights went back to their ends, waiting for the signal. This time, the Laughing Tree knight was half a heartbeat slower in thrusting his lance forward, and paid for it dearly when Ser Blount's lance swayed downward and slammed firmly into the ribs of the mystery knight, the lance shattering in a rain of wooden shards from the force of impact. 

A gasp sounded out from the audience, followed then by wild cheers when the Knight of the Laughing Tree remained seated on his horse, though now considerably less straight. He trotted to his end of the tilt yard, slipping into position, as Blount was given a new lance. 

This time when the flag was waved, the mystery knight surged forth on his horse, thighs tight around its body as they approached Ser Blount. The hooves were as loud as thunder, and when the Knight of the Laughing Tree guided his lance into the chest plate of his opponent, he emerged victorious. 

Ser Blount lay in the dirt, red marring the shining silver of his armor. The Knight of the Laughing Tree hunched over painfully on his horse as he took his victory lap, coming to a stop in front of the royal box. Aerys shot to his feet, face set into a glare. 

"Will you show your face, mystery knight, so that the realm may witness your victory and ransom?" Aerys asked, lips sneering over every word. His yellowed hands gripped the railing with startling force, vibrating with his fury. 

The Knight of the Laughing Tree shook his head, refusing to remove his helm. His shield seemed to be staring up at them, laughing, laughing, laughing. 

When he spoke, his voice was far less affected, tinged with higher notes than his previous baritone that echoed through the steel. "I only ask that Ser Blount teach his squire honor."

Then the mystery knight bowed, shield smiling, and rode off from sight. Aerys' hand shot out and gripped Rhaegar's forearm with surprising force. 

"Bring me that knight, or I will burn this place to the ground," he hissed. "Now!"

Rhaegar blinked, his heart rate spiking. He nodded, bowing, motioning for Arthur and Oswell to follow him. They retreated from the stands, quickly approaching the stables. The stableboy, upon seeing them, immediately brought out their horses. 

"Have you seen a knight?" Rhaegar asked the boy, suddenly feeling stupid. "On a white horse, in mismatched armor," he clarified. 

The boy, whose face had been crumpled in confusion, beamed in recognition. "He was riding toward the godswood, Your Highness."

Rhaegar and the two Kingguards jumped atop their horses, flying hard toward Harrenhal's godswood. It was a largely unused placed, as the Seven were worshipped in the South, but Rhaegar was unsurprised, remembering the joyful face of the weirwood painted upon the knight's shield. 

They rode quickly through the trees, eyes keen on their surroundings for a flash of silver or a blur of white horse. They rode hard for nearly twenty minutes, their search fruitless, and stopped at Harrenhal's heart tree. Its ghastly face was a sneering echo of Rhaegar's father, eyes rimmed in red just the same. 

Rhaegar dismounted, Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell following his example. Rhaegar approached the heart tree, laying his hand flat upon its face. _Come on, old gods,_ he thought, _deliver me this knight to appease my mad father._

He sighed, knowing the old gods were as likely to answer his prayers as dragons were likely to come back from the dead, and walked back over to his horse. He opened his mouth to tell his Kingsguards to go back to the castle when the small thunder of another horse's galloping filled the silence. 

Rhaegar looked around wildly, searching for the culprit, when a white horse burst into view. Atop it was a knight, bearing the weight of mismatched, ill-fitting armor. 

Suddenly, the Knight of the Laughing Tree jumped down from his still-galloping horse clumsily - a stark contrast to the showing of his superior riding skills earlier - and fell to his hands and knees before the heart tree. 

The knight violently ripped off his helm, a shower of dark hair falling over his shoulders as he threw the helm a distance away. It took one long moment for Rhaegar to see that the knight was no small man. Or a man at all. 

It was Lady Lyanna of House Stark, the very one Rhaegar had seen riding into Harrenhal's Keep the afternoon before the tourney, with her pale thighs straddling a magnificent black destrier. 

She was gasping for air beneath the heart tree, moaning in pain, prompting to Rhaegar the memory of Ser Blount's lance shattering against the Knight of the Laughing Tree's ribs. 

"My lady," he said, starting forward. 

Her silver-grey eyes flashed up and she breathed in a strangled gasp. " _Fuck._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the timeline of when Aerys tells Rhaegar to go find the knight so that Rhaegar, Ser Arthur, and Ser Oswell could find her still in her armor.


	6. A Lady's Secret and a Prince's Honor

Lyanna Stark cursed, swaying like grass in the wind as she climbed to her feet. One gloved hand sought out the heart tree for support, but Rhaegar could clearly see her arm shaking. Whether it was in pain or fear, he didn't know.

His eyes shifted down to the shield that lay in the grass, glaring evidence against her. Its front was painted a soft grey, the weirwood stark white and topped with bleeding leaves, and a joyful red smile.

Lyanna spared her shield a glance, internally cursing the old gods for allowing this ill luck to befall her. _Why was a stupid Southron prince in the godswood anyhow?_

"So," Rhaegar intoned, watching her try to pull her height taller, "you are the avenging mystery knight."

Her jaw worked, grey eyes swirling with apprehension and the kind of fear akin to an animal caught in a trap. She swallowed audibly, her throat contracting, but she made no move to reply, no move to dignify his statement.

"My father - the king - has found himself quite wary of this Knight of the Laughing Tree." Rhaegar threw a pointed look to her weirwood shield. "He's ordered me to find this knight, and bring him to await the king's justice."

At that, Lyanna's eyes finally widened. So quickly Rhaegar had no time to react, she bent over and unsheathed a glinting sword from her boot. Arm outstretched, she held it protectively in front of her, its blade staring Rhaegar in the face.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she growled, eyes intense, yet glazed. 

Although she was still a stone's throw away from him, Ser Arthur and Oswell started forward. Rhaegar held a hand up, signifying their halt.

"My lady, you may put your sword down," he said.

Her mouth twisted sardonically. "You think me so stupid? If I put this sword down, I'm as good as dead."

He tilted his head, curious. "How so?"

She snorted, wholly unladylike and wholly amused. "I've heard what your father does to those he deems traitor," she spat. Rhaegar stilled. "You think the entire realm doesn't know how _mad_ the king is? You thought it was a secret? If so, you're dumber than you look."

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, her words ringing true. He _had_ assumed the realm was still blind to his father's increasingly disturbed nature, with only the Kingsguards and Court privy to such knowledge. He'd figured that he had more than enough time to remove him as king before the kingdoms learned about Aerys' fire obsession and his neverending cruel streak.

Sensing his hesitation, Lyanna continued. "You cannot fool me, Prince. Your father is a madman, and _you_ are his spawn!"

Rhaegar sniffed once, meeting her eyes. "I am not my father," he declared, overcome with the inexplicable need to distance himself from any talk of the Mad King.

She laughed, short and horrible like the crack of a whip against bare skin. "All dragons are the same," she hissed. "You're just prettier to look at."

He knew better than to be flattered by the words coated with venom. Her entire form was vibrating in passionate anger, face flushed with the exertion of her declarations. At the corner of her mouth, a thin stream of blood was dripping down her pale skin, a startling mirror image to the heart tree at her back, both faces contorted in a hateful sneer.

"Despite what you may think," he maintained, "I am not my father. And I do not intend to take you to him."

Her eyes slitted suspiciously. "Why should I believe that?" She challenged him.

"You don't have to believe me," he conceded eventually. "Either way, I will not take you to him. I don't particularly relish in feeding my father's...nature."

Her lips parted, part in relief, part in aiding her heavy breathing. "You'll let me go then?" She spared the two Kingsguards at his back a quick glance. "Truly?"

Rhaeger nodded. "On my honor as a Targaryen, I swear you can go." She scoffed, showing just how much those words meant to her. "However, my lady, I think you'll find it hard to venture back to the castle on your own. Unless, you intend to walk the entire way..."

Her face froze and she whipped around, searching for the white beast that had run off as soon as she had jumped from its saddle. All she found were trees, the prince, his Kingsguards, and their three horses.

Her heart sank and she felt like screaming. "Well," she muttered.

Rhaegar studied her, realizing with a start just how lovely she was, even under the sheen of sweat and blood and visage of skepticism. She was a wolf aflame, a dark reincarnation of Queen Visenya herself, clad in junky armor and wielding a castle-forged sword.

"You may ride back with us, my lady, and I swear no harm will come to you."

Lyanna's face was crumpled with indecision, brain and heart warring. She looked out into the thick of the godswood, wondering if she could make the ten-mile trek back to the castle. At that train of thought, her ribs pulsed in horrific pain once more, a reminder of Ser Blount's ferocity in their match. 

She fell back against the heart tree, groaning in agony. Rhaegar began to approach, but stopped when her eyes flashed up in a warning.

"My lady-"

"Lyanna," she hissed instantly, an old habit from childhood. 

Rhaegar's purple eyes softened infinitesimally. "Lyanna, may I see your wound?"

She reared back, head knocking into the tree's trunk. "You may not!" She exclaimed hotly. "I'm not some capital whore you can put your hands on in exchange for a pretty smile."

That was the second backhanded compliment he'd received in a matter of minutes, but he pressed on. "I do not intend to dishonor you," he assured her, "I only wish to ensure your ribs aren't broken before you get on a horse."

"How would you know anything about that?" She countered.

"I've studied healing," he said. "Among many things. I will be able to tell." 

Her jaw was jutted out in childlike defiance, and her eyes were glossed over in pain, but she eventually gave him a small, short nod, looking like she wished to be anywhere but in the godswood with him. He approached her slowly, signalling for Arthur and Oswell to follow.

Rhaegar and Arthur made quick work of dismantling the medley of steel armor, while Oswell made trips to and fro to hide each piece amongst the trees. When each curve of steel was stripped and hidden, Lyanna was left only in a pair of boy's breeches and a sweat-soaked tunic.

She eyed Rhaegar warily as he approached her, sliding her back down the length of the weirwood's trunk, before plopping down at its roots.

With shaking hands, she peeled the hem of her tunic up just enough to reveal where the lance had connected with her body. Rhaegar knelt before her. Her ribs were stained a myriad of colors - yellow, blue, brown, and purple. The bruise from the impact was an angry, massive thing, spanning over the expanse from her ribs to her hip.

Rhaegar prodded the ridges of her ribcage gently, her skin achingly smooth beneath his touch. The bones were even and curved, nothing seeming out of sort.

"Nothing seems to be broken," he told her, looking up. Her face was mere inches from his, and in the proximity, he noticed that her eyes were more silver than grey after all. "You'll need to be careful not to furthur damage them, but your ribs are only bruised."

She cleared her throat uncomfortably, and pushed her shirt back down, before climbing awkwardly to her feet. Her shield still lay in the grass, its face laughing to the sky. She picked it up, running a finger over its front, sighing.

"I'll take that to my father." He reached for it.

Her eyes flashed up in alarm, and she hugged the shield tighter to her chest. "Why?"

"It will serve as evidence that I searched for the mystery knight." He gently pried it from her hold. "I'll tell him I found no other trace." He walked over to his horse and tied the shield to its hip.

She drifted over, eyes switching from Rhaegar to Arthur to Oswell. "Who will I ride with?" Her voice was almost void of emotion, save for the tiny sliver of indignation at having to share a horse.

"With me, my lady," Rhaegar said, stepping back to assist her.

"Lyanna," she corrected him immediately, weary and tired. She wanted to brush his hands away, but her ribs were aching something fierce, and even lifting her leg was largely painful.

Once she was securely straddling the horse, Rhaegar jumped on behind her. Almost instinctively, his hands sought out her hips and pulled her against him in the saddle. Although far too close for comfort with his chest pressed firmly into her back and his thighs warm around hers, she grudgingly accepted that it was preferable to falling from the horse and _actually_ breaking something this time.

Rhaegar kicked his heels into the horse and they bolted off. Her hair was a shining brown banner, and though the wind whipped his face, his nose was burning with the smell of winter.


	7. A Dance of Pride

The breeze soothed Elia's skin like a lover's caress, smooth and soft and sensual. Her eyes immediately sought out Prince Rhaegar. 

He stood tall, like some angel warrior, on the dusty grounds of the tilt yard, donning the gleaming black armor he was famous for. Across the chest plate, the three-headed dragon of his House was wrought in shimmering rubies. With his helm tucked beneath his arm, and his pale hair shining like silver against the black steel of his armor, he was a magnificent sight to behold. 

And next to him, no one else could compare. 

"Wow," her friend, Ashara Dayne, blurted next to her. "Look at him."

"The prince?" Elia furrowed her brows. "Your brother is his Kingsguard. Haven't you seen him before?"

Ashara rolled her eyes. "Not Prince Rhaegar. Him!" And then she pointed a thin finger a few spaces down from Rhaegar, where a tall, pale man stood, bulked in silver armor whose front was embossed with a snarling direwolf.

"That's Brandon Stark," her brother, Oberyn, cut in. "And he's already promised to another. _Her_." He jerked his head up, looking to where two girls sat several rows above them. "The prettier one," he clarified. 

The girl _was_ pretty, with spiraling hair the color of a sunset, pale skin, and mouth like a rose. But she didn't say that aloud, with her lovesick friend sulking beside her. 

"Who is she?" Ashara wondered, dark purple eyes narrowing. 

"Catelyn Tully," Oberyn replied, amused. 

Elia gave her friend a sad smile. Lady Catelyn Tully was one of the prettiest girls she'd ever seen, and to make matters worse, she was the daughter of a Great House, probably stocked with a dowry so fine even the prince would profit from an alliance. 

Ashara rolled her eyes again, though this time the disappointment was palpable, and turned back in her seat to admire Brandon Stark. He was a handsome man, admittedly, with shaggy brown hair and a face that was slanted with mischief. Then again, it was always surprising to any Southerner to see something pretty come out of the harsh North. 

Elia's eyes drifted back to Rhaegar as the trumpets called. The previous day's champions drifted into view, but where there should have been three, only two stepped forth. 

The Knight of the Laughing Tree was conspicuously missing, and there was a collective groan from the crowd as he missed the second trumpet call. 

Elia had enjoyed the mystery knight, even in his mismatched armor and honor-bound ways. She found herself sighing along. The king was on his feet, eyes wide and twitching, when it was announced the Knight of the Laughing Tree had not come to defend his victories. 

"This craven does not wish to show himself?" The king barked, silencing the stands. A stout bald man drifted forward, whispering in the king's ear until he calmed and returned to his seat. 

The stands began to talk once more, hesitant at first, then growing in volume. Elia looked back at the prince, but found his eyes elsewhere, at a point above her head and to the right somewhat. 

She turned and saw that he was staring where Lady Catelyn and her homely sister were sat, though now the two Tully girls were accompanied by four other bodies. 

Beside Catelyn was a man that looked much like Brandon Stark, though shorter, more solemn somehow. Next to him was a small man, thin in the extreme, with sandy brown hair and eyes so bright, Elia could see the green even from afar. 

The last two were leaning together, whispering furiously to one another. The boy was young, fifteen at the most, and the girl probably not much older. They both had dark hair, but where the boy's was cut above his shoulders, the girl's hair was long and messy. 

She was pretty, Elia had to admit, possessing a wild sort of beauty that was rare to appear - pale skin and dark hair, red lips and steel eyes. She was slender, but young, much younger than Elia, who was twenty-three and a woman grown. 

She wondered which of the girls the prince had been staring at. 

"Did you give the prince your favor?" Ashara whispered in her ear, twining their arms. 

Elia shook her head sadly. "He did not ask for it." _But perhaps_ , she thought to herself, _it wouldn't be seemly for a prince to show favoritism when still unmarried._

"I heard this tourney was a ploy for Rhaegar to find a bride," Ashara said quietly, eyes still fixed on Brandon Stark, who was readying himself for his match. 

Elia had heard the same, but in its place a dozen more reasons: the Whents wanted to boast their wealth, Rhaegar wanted to meet with the high lords, the prince needed a princess. She was unsure about any of them, except for one. 

If the prince needed a bride, who better than a woman that was a princess already in her own right?

* * *

Robert grinned, throwing back his wine, as Lyanna walked into the dining hall that night on the arm of her youngest brother, Benjen. 

She was staggeringly beautiful in her long gown, a lovely thing of black summer silk whose bodice was chased with silver filigree. The neckline was low enough to bare the swell of her cleavage, and it hugged the deep curve of her waist so that every man, woman, and child could see she was on the cusp of womanhood. 

Benjen led her to her seat, right next to Robert. He smiled upon her, taken aback by her wild beauty, all dark colors and pale milkglass skin and ruby red lips stained with wine. 

"You look pretty," he told her as she slipped into her seat, grimacing the whole time. 

"Thank you," she murmured, adding, "my lord."

The meal was blackened rabbit cooked in a broth of butter and mushrooms, with bowls of fresh vegetables and fruits. Platters of lemon cakes came after, and Robert was stuffed. 

Richard Lonmouth drifted over, challenging Robert to a drinking match. Robert laughed, eyeing Lyanna who was deep into her own wine and whispers with her brother and Howland Reed. 

Ser Lonmouth was going on and on about the Knight of the Laughing Tree, how the knight was a coward and a craven and not half as good as he thought he was. 

Robert bellowed, "Hear, hear!" He slammed his cup on the table twice, grinning. "I'll unmask the Knight of the Laughing Tree before the tourney is over!"

Robert hadn't noticed the king's attention until the man was standing, face distraught and disturbed. He was wearing robes of crimson that fell off his body unnaturally, like cloth over bones. 

"Hear me," the king roared, "any man who brings me this mystery knight who bears the sigil of a laughing tree will earn a royal award. Landships and gold beyond your dreams. I declare the Knight of the Laughing Tree a traitor to the realm and the crown!"

The room erupted in cheers and uneasy laughs, Robert's among them. He'd only wished for competition, for glory, not to irritate the Mad King. 

The king fell back to his chair awkwardly and motioned for his wine goblet to be tasted by the thin man at his left. Robert found himself wondering for the first time ever, what it was about dragon's blood that crazed men so. 

* * *

Lyanna drank her wine greedily, happy for the moment that it had dulled the pain in her ribs and dulled her dislike for Robert Baratheon. 

What it hadn't done was dull her shock at the king's reaction to the mystery knight. Her skin was flushed cold by the time his screeching was over, and the word _traitor_ echoed through her mind again and again and again. 

Catelyn Tully and her sister, Lysa, were also sitting with them that night. Brandon was still sulky from his loss against the prince in the joust, but he was charming enough with Catelyn, making her smile, making her blush, making her giggle. She was the epitome of a lady, and her sister couldn't stop glaring. 

That is, until Lysa's attention was pulled elsewhere. 

"He's so handsome," Lysa sighed. Their dinner plates were being taken away, and musicians were setting up their instruments in the corners. 

"Who?" Robert asked with a laugh. "I'm sitting right here."

Lyanna snorted, but Lysa scowled. "Prince Rhaegar of course." 

Everyone at the Stark table looked at the Targaryen prince. He was sat with his father on the dais, speaking to the Kingsguard that had hidden her armor in the forest. Oswell, she thought she remembered the prince calling him. 

Brandon scoffed. "Yeah, he's alright. If you like that whole silver hair, purple-eyed prince thing."

Lysa arched one brow and laughed incredulously. "And all girls do," she promised. Even Catelyn blushed, though she hid it well from her betrothed. 

"Not _all_ girls," Brandon countered, turning to his sister. "Lya, what do you think about the prince?"

Her entire table was staring at her, expectant, but Benjen and Howland looked uncomfortable, knowing just how acquainted she was with the crown prince. 

"Oh, shut up," she snapped. "You're just sore because you lost today."

Brandon grimaced. "And you're just angry that you're not allowed to joust!"

Lyanna smirked, knowing just how wrong her oldest brother was. Benjen even chuckled behind a hand. 

"He's coming over here!" Lysa hissed suddenly, hurriedly. 

Lyanna glanced up, met with the image of an approaching Prince Rhaegar. 

"What the-" Robert muttered into his cup. 

Rhaegar stopped before her, standing with a jut to his hips so that the pommel of his sword thrusted forward from its scabbard. He was tall, taller even than she remembered, so that to look in his eyes she had to crane her neck. Silver strands clashed against the deep sheen of his long-sleeved black leather doublet, one side of the collar folded over his chest and embroidered in red a swirling sigil of a three-headed dragon. 

"My lady," he said expectantly, voice rolling over the words like silk, "would you dance with me?"

She had to physically grind her teeth together to keep from snapping at him like she wanted. How dare he approach her in front of her brothers, her peers?

Lyanna fought the urge to decline, sensing her brothers and the Tully girls and Robert and Howland awaiting her reply. 

"Of course," she accepted with gritted teeth. She stood, scowling in pain, a look that the prince noticed. He took her hand, folding it fully into his own, and led her out onto the floor. 

She dutifully molded her fingers against his shoulder, jamming the tips hard into his leather doublet. But where she was harsh, Rhaegar was soft, wrapping his arm gently around her hurt ribs so that she was pulled close against his chest. 

They began to dance, and Rhaegar wilted his torso over hers so that he could murmur in her ear. 

"Does anyone else know that you're the mystery knight?" He asked, pulling back just enough so that he could see her reaction. 

"My little brother," she answered quietly. "And Howland Reed."

"And they won't let it slip?"

She shook her head. "They're loyal to _me_."

Rhaegar leaned back into her, his chin swiping across her hair. "May I ask why Robert Baratheon is glaring at us? Well," he amended, "at me, more specifically."

Lyanna stilled momentarily, tucking her head against his collarbone. "He's probably jealous. My lord father plans to marry us."

Rhaegar's brows rose. "You are betrothed?"

"No," she replied immediately. "My father offered my hand to Lord Robert though, and he will accompany us back to Winterfell to accept."

The prince hummed in acknowledgement, trying to imagine the pretty Northern girl with the Stormlord. Somehow he couldn't. 

"How are your ribs?" He asked instead. 

"Fine," she answered primly. 

Rhaegar chuckled. "It is considered treason to lie to your prince."

He could feel the fire racing through her as she snapped, "You are not my _anything_!" Then she lowered her voice. "And my ribs feel fine."

He tightened his hold on her briefly, just enough so that she flinched in his arms. "That's what I thought," he sighed. "How much pain are you in?"

She was quiet for so long, Rhaegar thought she would just ignore him. Until finally, she spoke, voice low and full of hurt pride. "A tremendous amount."

"I can get you milk of the poppy."

"No," she declined, "milk of the poppy makes me act strange, and my brothers would notice. I can't have Ned and Brandon asking questions."

"You'll just suffer then?"

"Yes," she said simply. 

Rhaegar admired her in that moment, a small flame of a girl willing to bear horrid pain to keep her own glorious victories a secret. Then a thought came to him, one he had been mulling over since he discovered her. 

"Why did you do it?" He asked. "Compete against those knights only to demand they teach their squires honor?"

She sniffed, a nerve having been touched. "I found the three squires beating up a friend of mine, my father's bannerman, Howland Reed. He was defenseless and small and the fight was outmatched. Howland can't ride a horse, nor joust, so I defended his honor for him."

Something foreign and sharp suddenly filled Rhaegar's heart, and he smiled softly, pulling her closer by accident. Holding her against his chest, with the scent of winter invading his senses, he could almost forget that his father was mad for blood and soon a prince would don a king's crown.


	8. Ice and Fire

Twilight settled over the tourney grounds like a pastel blanket, the sky stained lilac and pale pink and periwinkle and deep purple like some lovely pulsing bruise. The towers of Harrenhal reached into the sky like a multitude of black candles that had been used time and time again, left only as thin sticks of melted wax.

Lyanna walked around the castle grounds alone, having skipped watching the jousts for the day. After her brief dance with the prince at the feast the night before, it was all Lyanna could do to stay away from Robert Baratheon. 

He'd been seething by the time she sat back down in her seat, face red and angry and the epitome of his House words, "Ours is the fury." He was a jealous, lecherous fool who had a hard time keeping his mouth shut and eyes down.

He got raging drunk, followed them back to the Stark encampment, and proceeded to rage for hours about Targaryens and _silver sisterfuckers_. It didn't help that Brandon had pointed out that Rhaegar had no sister to fuck.

So Lyanna holed up in her tent, didn't rouse when Benjen came to wake her for the beginning of the jousting, and played the ghost of Harrenhal for the rest of the day. It was quite nice, in all honesty, discovering the dark nooks of the haunted castle, running her hands over the blackened stone.

Eventually, she ventured into the godswood to find the heart tree, as if she was pulled there by some old force. She prayed for the old gods to send her a sign, send her something, to give her hope for her future. Anything.

Afterward, she'd gone hunting for the pieces to her armor, but Ser Oswell the Kingsguard had hid them too well and Lyanna wasn't able to climb high enough into the trees. Her ribs still ached like they were being battered every moment of every day. She almost wished she'd taken the prince up on his offer of milk of the poppy.

Night gathered and she left the godswood, her stomach empty but full somehow. She walked past the encampments, past the curve of the castle's curtain walls, and over to where the mummers and singers had set up their tents and pavilions. They were bright silks, oranges and yellows and greens, and the air was sweet with music and laughter.

With the knowledge that her brothers were surely occupied at the feast within the castle's dining hall, Lyanna walked closer to the singers, who warbled filthy lyrics between their cups of ale. She smiled, walking past a particularly rowdy group, before she stopped, a chill curling up her spine.

Her eyes were stuck on a small tent, hardly any taller than Lyanna herself, made of plain black material that billowed hard in the night wind. The sight of it amid the bright colors of the other tents made her uneasy, like a lone demon out in the world.

A cold hand caught her elbow, and Lyanna whirled. A hunched woman smiled up at her, her mouth toothless and gummy, and her skin powdered and sagging. The woman wore a large robe of black atop her short frame, and kept the hood pulled over her dull red hair.

"Want to hear your fortune, girl?" The woman sneered, pale yellow eyes dancing.

Lyanna scowled, shaking her arm free. "No, thank you." She turned to leave.

"I can give you the answer you seek - the answer to the question you gave your old gods just this morning."

Lyanna bristled, looking back over her shoulder. "How do you know I prayed this morning? Did you...did you _follow_ me?!"

The woman chuckled darkly. "I did not follow you, lovely girl." Lyanna froze. "I am Maggy the Frog of Lannisport, and I know things. I know that you fear your betrothal to the Stormlord, that you fear he will be a poor husband."

Lyanna's eyes widened and her breath came shallow. How could she knows these details, this perfect stranger...everything the woman said Lyanna had felt in her heart at one point. In the godswood, she'd prayed to the heart tree about Robert. If the crone wasn't lying about following her, then what kind of dark magic did she possess?

In her silence, Maggy the Frog persisted. "I can give you the answers you seek," she repeated, "follow me to my tent and you will know."

Despite her will to run away, to slap on a dress and feast with her brothers instead, she walked behind the woman, one foot in front of the other until they slithered through the small flaps of the lone black tent. 

Inside, candles blazed, tall new ones with flames that were as big as Lyanna's arms. A small circular table sat at the center, and a dirty cot was pushed off to the side. It smelled heavily of spices and smokes and something foreign, something primal and foreboding.

"Sit," Maggy commanded, pointing to one of the two chairs at her table. Lyanna sat, shivering despite the warmth.

Maggy busied herself, throwing a cloth over her bed, filling a cup with wine for herself, grabbing something wrapped in black silk. She brought it to the table, sitting before she unwrapped it. Inside lay a sharp, glinting needle.

"Prick your finger with that," Maggy told her.

Lyanna laughed breathlessly. "Are you kidding me? That'll take my finger clean off!"

Maggy snorted, pulling back her hood to reveal a mostly bald head with a few scrags of red hair. "It won't."

Despite her reservation, Lyanna took the needle in hand, swallowing back fear, and touched the point of it to one finger. Dark blood welled immediately, but before it had time to drip, Maggy grabbed her wrist and brought Lyanna's bleeding finger into her mouth.

Lyanna sat in shock as Maggy sucked at her fingertip, whose face was screwed up in concentration before she let it go with a distinct "pop." When the woman opened her eyes, Lyanna reared back; where Maggy once had two pale yellow orbs set into her sockets, now there were only gaping black holes like misshapen onyx gems.

"Wha-" Lyanna whispered in horror.

But then Maggy began to speak, her voice cold and deep like the crashing of boulders. "Lyanna of House Stark." Lyanna froze, remembering she had never divulged her name to the woman. "You wish to know what will become of your impending marriage."

Lyanna could only sit very, very still. Outside, the wind was howling something fierce like a pack of wolves on the prowl, raging and screaming and threatening. The candles' flames seemed to flicker and dance, growing larger and larger until she feared they would burn the tent down.

Maggy continued. "You will despise your husband as you bind your hand to his, with gods and men as your witnesses. Women will spit your name with venom and lust for your husband, even as he vows himself to you.

"The Seven gods of the South will watch as you curse them in their sept, and a grey cloak will be replaced by black."

Yellow and black were the colors of House Baratheon, Lyanna knew - a dark stag prancing across a bright yellow field.

"Your maidenhead will stay intact long after your wedding night," Maggy promised with an emotionless chuckle, "but you will birth children. Three to be exact." 

The holes where the woman's eyes once were seemed to glisten, as if wet with blood, glinting like obsidian in the flickering candlelight. 

"Your children will be the winged wolves," Maggy kept on, "and as they fly, they will bring about the Eternal Summer that will melt the darkness once and for all."

Lyanna's face furrowed in confusion. Robert was a stag of Storm's End; if anything, her children would be the horned wolves. 

"Your husband's parents will hail from conquerors great," Maggy promised, "but you will be loyal to his mother while you curse the father." Lyanna stilled; Robert Baratheon's parents had been dead since he was a child. "And you will only ever go home to Winterfell once more in your life."

The breath left Lyanna's chest instantly; surely Robert Baratheon didn't mean to keep her from her family, from Ned his best friend, forever? She wanted to rage, but her body was so cold, Lyanna wasn't sure if she could walk on her own. What sort of lies did this woman dare poison her with? Who was she to blacken Lyanna's future with a few drops of some spilled blood?

"Your three children will be the greatest that the world has ever seen, your firstborn the Promised One," Maggy rasped, her chest rattling. Lyanna's heart beat furiously, threatening to leave her chest of its own volition. "And their blood will freeze and flame with that of ice and fire."

* * *

"Your Highness, would you like to go on a walk?"

Elia Martell was a fragile sort of beauty in a shimmering green gown, the neckline of which plunged deeply below her copper-skinned chest. She bore a lovely smile, that which was directed solely at the Targaryen prince. 

Rhaegar smiled up at her, thankful his father was too tired to attend the feast. He had neither the want nor patience to deal with Aerys. "Of course, my lady."

He stood and took her arm, passing Ashara Dayne, Ser Arthur's sister, as she danced with Lyanna Stark's oldest brother. Lady Ashara's face was full of laughter as the Stark boy spun her around and around. 

Ser Arthur made to follow him, but Elia put a hand on Rhaegar's arm. "I thought we could be alone." She smiled with false innocence. "It is only a walk, Your Highness, and I don't bite."

Rhaegar allowed a small grin, then shook his head at Arthur - a silent command for privacy. 

Alone, Rhaegar and Elia ventured beyond the dining hall and into the castle grounds, aimlessly walking against the strong breeze. 

"I must say, my prince, you rode excellently today against Ser Yohn Royce."

"Thank you, my lady," Rhaegar smiled. The next morning would bring about his final matches against Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur. 

"I daresay I was correct in predicting your victory," she murmured, like it was a secret between only them. 

Chuckling, he said, "Are the Dornish known for their fortune telling?"

Playing along, the corners of her mouth curled upward and her eyes sparkled darkly. "We've been known to tell certain futures."

Rhaegar raised a brow. "Tell me something then about my future. I'd like to test this skill of yours."

Elia smiled wide, tapping her chin in mock thought. "You'll be married of course," she let go of his arm and looked at him over her shoulder, "to a beautiful bride. She'll love you, and bear you a whole army of healthy children."

 _I don't need an army_ , he thought to himself as the wind roared against him, _I only need three. The dragon must have three heads._

"Your Highness," Elia intoned, turning around so that she faced him. They'd walked aimlessly into some darkened, empty courtyard, a place that even the moon could not find. 

"Yes?"

"Why are you not married yet? You're young, a prince, extraordinarily handsome...everything a woman would want."

He raised his brows, surprised by her sudden boldness. "My father has vacillated between choices of my bride for some time now. Only recently has he allowed me the privilege to choose my own."

Elia's lips parted as she stared up at him. "Oh?"

Rhaegar nodded silently, taking a guess as to where this was heading. 

"Have you given any thought to whom you might choose?" She asked hopefully. 

In truth, he hadn't given it as much thought as he should have. With helping the Stark girl, jousting himself, and planning to meet with the high lords on the morrow, marriage had been the furthest thing from Rhaegar's mind. 

But as Elia asked him, an unbidden, brief image flashed in his mind - dark hair, eyes the color of winter's ice, and a temper on fire. 

Rhaegar froze. Where had that come from?

Elia touched his arm. "My prince..." She said doubtfully, looking strangely into his eyes. 

"Truthfully," he answered, "I haven't given as much thought as I should have to the matter. There's been a lot on my mind."

Elia hummed. "Such is the burden of the Dragon Prince." She pressed her back into the dark stone of one wall, and smirked, crooking one finger at him. 

He approached slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "Yes, my lady?"

She twisted her hands into the fabric of his doublet and yanked him against her. "I think I want to feel your lips on mine again."

Rhaegar exhaled nervously. "I believe it was _you_ who kissed _me_ before..."

Desire flared in her dark eyes and she pulled him closer, their bodies fitting together. "Then let me take what I want once more." And she pressed her mouth to his, hot and insistent - all fire, and no ice.


	9. A Crown of Winter Roses

Rhaegar's skull was ringing from the force of Ser Arthur's lance, nausea swimming up his throat. The tip of Rhaegar's lance forced the Kingsguard from his horse and the roar of the crowd was deafening. 

Rhaegar walked his horse in a victory lap, clutching tightly to its neck. His head swam uneasily, and he blinked his eyes to rid the blurriness. His squire, a hyper young boy from House Velaryon, came running over, grabbing for the helm Rhaegar had yanked off. 

The waning afternoon sun nearly blinded him, and he gasped greedily for air. Sweat ran in rivers down his skin, his hair plastered wetly to his neck. Lord Whent waddled over, the crown for his Queen of Love and Beauty in his hands. It was a beautiful thing, a twisted wreath of dark vines with winter roses, blue as frost, braided in. 

Rhaegar took it, flinching at the bite of thorns in his palm. Atop his horse, he surveyed the stands, nervous and almost unwilling to choose. He hadn't put any thought into this part, didn't care about the tradition at all really. 

If only he was married, Rhaegar could have just handed it off to his wife, as formality dictated. At the bottom of the centermost stand were the Starks, cold and stone-faced, chipped from the ice that sheeted the entirety of the North. 

Lyanna Stark sat straight as rod, her expression completely devoid of emotion. She wore a simple dress of grey and white, the Stark colors, and her hair was a wild brown tangle. But it was her face that turned heads and eyes, pale and austere with a full, obscene mouth. 

Vivid images flashed unbidden in his mind: Lyanna's ribs painted with brown and yellow bruises, the sneer of her mouth as she unsheathed a sword from her armored boot, small hips pulled tightly against his on the saddle, her chest pressed to his as they danced. 

She was brave and bold and larger than life. A slender young girl playing at mystery knight, bold as she challenged three experienced knights, all to defend her victimized friend's honor. Lyanna Stark was a rare breed, the kind of girl that never came around but for once in a lifetime. 

She deserved the glory of a tourney victory, to hear the people shout her name as they shouted his. _"Prince Rhaegar, the Dragon Prince!"_ But because his father was mad with paranoia and seethed at the mention of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, she was forced to keep her courage a secret. 

And because of that, Rhaegar urged his horse forth, trotting until he stopped before her and her brothers. Only at the last moment did he notice that beside Brandon Stark were two bronze-skinned girls: Ashara Dayne and Elia Martell. 

Elia's face was shining with pride and adoration, her dark eyes seeking his. After their brief, but heavy, kiss the night before, Rhaegar knew Elia expected the crown. How could she not? They'd kissed twice, far more than he'd ever done with little Lyanna Stark. 

Still, he forced his eyes to the Northern girl. Lyanna's jaw was set in angry defiance, her eyes ablaze. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, practically daring him to gift the crown to someone, _anyone_ else. 

And so, from atop his saddle, he leaned forward and gently placed the blue rose crown over her head. Pulling back, he realized it suited her, the frosty-colored roses complementing her Stark coloring. 

He nodded his head at her, ignoring the look of pure fury she sent in return, and steered his horse away and off to the stables. 

* * *

Lyanna shot to her feet, and bounded away. Brandon's shouts and Robert's curses were drowned out by the offers of congratulations as she pushed away from the grounds. She had to shove and sidestep, but she was able to escape from the yard. 

Finally free, she wondered how well Brandon could wield a sword against a Southerner. Hopefully damn well, because she'd need a champion for a trial by combat once she murdered the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms. 

How could he? Why did he do it? She seethed, stalking toward the stables. She wanted her horse and she wanted it now. A stableboy lounged against the wall, but popped up as she approached. 

"Lyanna Stark," she identified herself. "I need my horse."

The boy raced off and Lyanna paced the dirt, growing angrier by the second. A whinny at her back surprised her, and she whirled, fists clenching. Rhaegar sat like a king atop his destrier, every inch of a lady's dream. 

She strode forward and yanked on the reins of his black horse, holding them tight so he'd be forced to answer her questions. 

His silver-gold hair was lank with sweat and his eyes, a dreamy shade of indigo like twilight at its deepest point, were glazed. She knew that look, remembered it from when she'd jousted against Ser Blount. 

"How could you?" She screeched. The horse nickered angrily. 

"Excuse me?" The prince asked politely, dismounting. He took the reins from her hand and gave them to his squire. His squire and horse walked quietly into the stables. 

"Why did you do it?" She demanded. "Did you mean to make a fool of me in front of everyone? Is that funny to you?"

Rhaegar clenched his jaw and ground his teeth. He grabbed her elbow and pulled her away, off to the side of the stables where no one was. "What is your problem?"

She wrenched her arm free of his hold. " _My_ problem?" She repeated. "You gave me this ridiculous crown. That's my problem! Here, take it." She tore the crown from her head, its thorns and petals ripping through her hair painfully. 

Rhaegar sighed, grimacing. "I gave it to you to have. Not to give away."

"I don't want it. I'm not your little joke to be had."

"It wasn't a joke," he whispered heatedly. "I gave it to you because I admire your courage. I like that you donned steel just to defend your friend's honor. I like that you had enough gall to raise a blade to me. I wanted to name you the Queen of Love and Beauty because you deserve _some_ prize, even if it's not the one you wanted."

Lyanna blinked, never having expected that answer. Though her heart was still pounding and her ire very much alive, she whispered, "You embarrassed me."

"Your Highness!" Rhaegar's squire came bounding around the corner, breathless and red-faced. Ser Barristan Selmy followed, face schooled into an emotionless mask. 

"The king requests an audience with you," Ser Barristan said solemnly. "Now."

Rhaegar nodded, looking back at Lyanna briefly, before stalking off. His squire and the Kingsguard followed immediately. 

The three gone, Lyanna shrieked in frustration, throwing the rose laurel to the ground. Swiveling on her foot, she stomped away, intending for the Stark encampment. 

However, before she could disappear from sight, she stopped, looking over her shoulder. The pretty crown of winter roses lay on the ground, and Lyanna felt suddenly sad. Winter roses grew at Winterfell; they didn't deserve to wilt in the Southern dirt. 

She glanced left and right, ensuring no one was watching, and ran over, snatching up her crown before running off. 

* * *

Ser Gerold Hightower was standing watch as Rhaegar approached his father's chambers, pushing the door open silently so the prince could enter. The king sat at his desk, hunched over sheets of parchment bleeding ink, clutching a quill in his twisted fingers. 

"Father," Rhaegar bowed. "You asked for me." The room was cloudy with smoke and the smell of it. 

Aerys faced him, a queer smile twisting his mouth. "Congratulations on your victory, son." 

Rhaegar balked; he didn't know the last time he'd seen his father smile without genuine malice, couldn't remember when last he'd been called _son_. 

"You will marry that girl," his father declared suddenly, without warning, and turned back to his papers. 

Rhaegar frowned, confused. It was like his father was continuing some conversation Rhaegar had not been privy to. "Excuse me?"

"The Stark bitch you crowned," Aerys huffed impatiently.

"Wait," Rhaegar said, stepping closer, his blood pumping fast. "You said I could choose my own bride." 

He'd been too preoccupied with other things to properly entertain as a suitor, but who could he have named in that split second his father paused. Elia? He didn't know if her body could produce the children he needed. Cersei Lannister was far too like her scheming father for either Rhaegar _or_ Aerys to agree. Lyanna Stark though...no, no, no. 

Aerys sneered terribly, standing from his chair. "Why else would you crown the girl if not for your inclination towards her?"

Rhaegar stilled. He couldn't very well tell his father that he crowned Lyanna Stark for her valor as the Knight of the Laughing Tree - not when Aerys was still sullen over the fact that the mystery knight hadn't been located. Lyanna's painted shield had been fed to the fireplace as soon as Rhaegar had presented it to his father as evidence of his search. 

"She's beautiful," Rhaegar offered instead. 

"Yes, yes," Aerys drawled mockingly. "Beauty and a tight cunt are all that matter in women. But those Starks, they're planning something in their distant Northern fortress. I can feel it in my bones!"

His father drew in a deep breath to aid his lungs before continuing. "You'll marry her in two months, and then those treasonous Starks may never rise against us. Or else they'll have a dead pup on their hands."

He felt sick. _What treason have they committed?!_ Rhaegar wanted to scream, but he was speechless. Until a thought niggled his brain. "Lady Stark is set to be betrothed to Robert Baratheon. I cannot very well take away my second cousin's intended."

Aerys chuckled. "We'll offer him a better prize in lieu of losing that frozen cunt." He met Rhaegar's eyes, smiling a sad, mocking smile. "I'm sure your dragon's blood will heat her right up."

Rhaegar stood calmly, but inside, there was a storm. The girl had been livid that he'd crowned her as Queen of Love and Beauty. What would she do when he told her she was betrothed to him, no choice in the matter, taken from the very man that was already close to her family? He couldn't even imagine trying to bed her. 

One thing was for certain, Lyanna Stark would be furious. 

"I leave for King's Landing tonight," Aerys told him, gathering papers. "To begin the preparations for your wedding. You'll bring the girl with you when you leave on the morrow."

"She must go home," Rhaegar insisted. "She has her life to pack up."

"Let her father do it," Aerys said flippantly. 

Rhaegar's throat was tight. Everything was happening so fast, so sudden. In only a few hours he was supposed to meet with the high lords to discuss deposing his father. He would lose Storm's End's support, that much was certain; Rhaegar thought of Robert Baratheon's jealous, angry face as he had danced with Lyanna. 

He couldn't afford to lose the North's pledge either. Would they be angry as well? Surely a match with a prince was better than a lord, but he was unsure of where their loyalties lay. Certainly with Lyanna. 

"You'll announce the union at tonight's feast. I'd do it myself, but I leave within the hour." Aerys pulled on a heavy cloak. 

Rhaegar bowed and turned to leave but stopped at the door when his father spoke again. 

"Smile, my son, perhaps the she-wolf will birth you an ice dragon."


	10. A Winter Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked what I personally think Rhaegar looks like, so I thought I'd share the picture I reference to when writing. This is the Rhaegar Targaryen of "Hell is Empty."
> 
>  

Elia's heart squeezed painfully, like a sour orange caught in the grasp of an angry giant, clenching until it would burst. A lone, hot tear burned a trail down her cheek, and she flicked it away impatiently.

Ashara Dayne gave her a small, pitious smile, while her brother, Oberyn, looked both unconcerned and ready to raise the ire of Dorne. "The prince is an ugly man anyways," he said suddenly, twirling a dagger between his fingers.

Elia sat at the vanity in her room at Harrenhal, combing her ghost-thin fingers through long black hair. "No, he's not," she sighed.

"No," Oberyn agreed begrudgingly, "he's not."

Elia squeezed her eyes shut, but it did nothing to stave off the images of the afternoon. All she could see was Rhaegar, beautiful and gallant and victorious, urging his horse forth, close close _so close_ to her. And then, at the last moment, his eyes strayed.

To the little Stark girl no less. A pretty thing she was, slim and pale with eyes like smoke. But she was just a girl, a _child_ even! Elia was twenty-three, far past the time to wed, and already a princess. What was it about the Northern lady that caught Rhaegar's eye?

 _It has to be her name_ , Elia decided. House Stark was an ancient and powerful house, with the blood of the First Men running through their veins, once the Kings of Winter before they knelt to a Targaryen.

 _I wonder if little Lyanna Stark has knelt for the prince_ , Elia thought maliciously. A lewd picture of the Stark girl on her knees for Rhaegar made Elia taste blood.

"You can find someone better," Oberyn promised, "a Dornishman that appreciates your value."

Elia frowned. "I do not want some Dornishman. I want Prince Rhaegar." _I was meant for him, I can feel it in my bones_.

She stood suddenly from her chair and strode to her trunk where dozens of thin silk dresses lay pretty and waiting. She rummaged through them, growing more frustrated and angry by the second, until she found what she was looking for.

It was a little risque to wear outside of Sunspear, an orange gown with a neckline that plunged far below her breasts, and left her arms bare. But it was more than perfect to make men's eyes stray. The prince would not be immune to Elia, even if Lady Lyanna walked into the feast hall stark naked.

 _It was just a flower crown_ , Elia thought to herself, calming finally. _It's not like they're getting married._ She would dress herself up, charm the pants off Prince Rhaegar if need be, and then, someday soon, she would be his queen.

* * *

Every step closer he found himself to the Stark encampment left Rhaegar feeling like he was walking to his death rather than his betrothed. Even Ser Arthur's presence at his shoulder did nothing to appease the nausea swimming up his throat.

Rhaegar could only imagine how confused and upset Lyanna would be over the news of their forced betrothal; she was not fond of him, that was certain - every look she sent him was full of contempt or judgement, and her mouth had never smiled for him, let alone flirted.

No, this wasn't going to be good.

And there was the issue of Robert Baratheon to handle. It was widely known that his temper was the epitome of his House words: "Ours is the fury." That was one more thing Rhaegar did not want to deal with, and yet, with his father gone to King's Landing, it was all left to him.

The grey tents emblazoned with snarling direwolves sent a chill down Rhaegar's body. Outside, Benjen Stark was dancing about with a wooden tourney sword, swiping and slicing at some invisible foe. Seated in a chair near the largest tent's entrance was Ned Stark, running a whetstone down his sword's blade. Brandon Stark was lounging about, drinking from a wineskin.

Benjen was the first to notice the prince and his Kingsguard, dropping his wooden sword immediately. His face drooped in awe, his eyes set on Ser Arthur. Ned stiffened, bowing his head, but Brandon remained defiant, meeting Rhaegar's eyes boldly.

"Ben, where's my-" Lyanna came out of the smallest tent, her words dying on her lips; she wore skin-tight leggings and an oversized tunic that almost reached her knees. It made her seem childlike somehow, innocent...and yet, the slender curve of her legs made Rhaegar's mouth dry.

"What are _you_ doing here?" She demanded, hands molding to her hips. A frost blue petal was stuck to her shoulder.

"Lya!" Ned hissed chidingly.

Rhaegar attempted a smile. "I came to speak with you," he told her. "Actually," he met the eyes of each of her brothers, "I would like to speak with all of you together. If we could," he motioned to the large Stark pavilion. 

Ned stood, folding back a tent flap. Brandon eyed the prince distrustfully, trading wary glances with his sister and youngest brother. 

Inside, Ned offered Rhaegar a chair to sit upon, but the prince declined. He clenched his jaw, anxious and worried.

He finally decided it was best to get everything out, quickly and simply. "I've come to ask for your hand in marriage." He met eyes with Lyanna.

The air seemed to still, no one making a move. Lyanna's eyes widened, her pupils dark and dilated; she stared at him, _through_ him, as time crept on.

Ned was the first to speak. "I'm afraid Lyanna has already been offered to another. To Robert Baratheon."

Rhaegar nodded, dropping his eyes. _Here we go_ , he thought. "I am aware of that. However, my father insists on joining our Houses, and finding a different bride for Lord Baratheon."

"Why?" Brandon demanded, jumping to his feet. His eyes, usually full of mischief and mirth, were ice cold. 

Sighing, Rhaegar explained, "The king believes an alliance with the North could be beneficial for both our families. He thinks your sister to be a suitable match for me." Lies, blatant lies. _The king is terrified of what your father plans behind his back._

In the quiet, Rhaegar persisted. "House Stark is an old and powerful bloodline; our marriage would merge the blood of the First Men and of the Old Valyrian dragonlords. Your sister would be queen once I ascend the throne."

At that, Lyanna burst. "I don't want to be queen! I don't even want to be your _wife_!"

"My lady," Rhaegar murmured, stepping closer.

She took one step back. " _My name is Lyanna_. How could you marry me if you can't even remember my name?" She demanded hotly, eyes flaring.

He narrowed his eyes in irritation; this wasn't what he wanted either, forcing a betrothal on a girl that would rather bury him than bed him, but it was what he had to do. Perhaps his marriage to Lyanna Stark would secure his power to depose his king father.

"I know your name," he assured her, frustration creeping into his tone. He clenched his jaw, taking a moment to compose himself. "Lyanna," he amended, "I am truly sorry for breaking your betrothal to Robert Barath-"

She scoffed, laughing meanly. "I did not want to marry that whoring oaf. Seven hells, it wasn't even official yet. But I also don't want to marry some Targaryen prince whose blood is so tainted that our children will be half-mad out of the womb."

"Lyanna!" Ned shouted, eyes circled in shock. "Forgive her, Your Highness. She does not know what she says."

"Yes, I do," Lyanna insisted. She ground her teeth together painfully, a thought coming to her. "Is this about the mystery knight? Did you tell the king ab-"

But before she could continue, a deep voice boomed outside the tent. A moment later, Robert Baratheon pushed through the tent flaps; his smile died quickly upon seeing Rhaegar in Lyanna's presence. He scowled deeply. "What's _he_ doing here?!"

Ned hurried to his friend's side, placing an iron hand on Robert's shoulder. "Robert..." He said warningly.

Rhaegar faced his second cousin fully, knowing that to get it through to Robert, he'd have to be firm. "I've come to ask for Lyanna's hand in marriage."

Instantly, Robert roared; from behind Rhaegar, Arthur unsheathed Dawn, coming to stand before him. " _I_ am to marry her!" Robert shouted in fury; Brandon and Ned molded themselves to one arm each, holding back the Stormlord.

"I realize that it was set in motion for you to one day marry her, and my father fully intends to make up your loss with another bride." A thought popped into Rhaegar's head. "Cersei Lannister perhaps."

Robert scowled. "I don't want some Southern girl who thinks she shits gold. Lord Rickard himself offered me Lyanna. Does _he_ know about the Mad King's plan?"

Blood rushed to Rhaegar's cheeks, and the famous Targaryen temper doused in his dragon's blood flared. He approached Robert until he stood a foot away; the tent quieted as Rhaegar stared the Stormlord down.

"You will watch your mouth when you speak of my father. He is still monarch of the Seven Kingdoms, and one day, I will be king. A raven has already been sent to Winterfell informing Lord Rickard of the situation. And despite your feelings on the matter, which are of no importance whatsoever, Lyanna _will_ be my wife. This was not an offer; this is a royal command."

Rhaegar looked over his shoulder at Lyanna, who seemed shocked silent. "Lyanna," he said quietly, resisting the urge to use the proper _my lady_ , "I will announce the betrothal at tonight's feast. I would like for you to sit with me on the dais."

She turned her eyes to him, large and glossy, full of anger and hurt and fear. "Must I?"

He frowned, nodding. "You must." He paused, sending a side glance to Robert Baratheon who was vibrating in anger. "The realm will want to see their future princess."


	11. A Fortune's Confrontation

Brandon's voice was sharper than a whip crack. "Where do you think you're going?"

Lyanna stopped, hunching further into her cloak. The fur that trimmed her hood tickled her skin where it lay against her forehead, the smell of Winterfell so deep in its hair that tears blurred her eyes with every breath. 

"None of your business," she snapped, meaning to walk away. 

Brandon caught her arm before she could escape, an iron grasp that might as well have been a chain. "The prince specifically requested you to sit by him at the feast. I may hold no love for the Targaryens, but we needn't anger them."

 _The prince can shove his anger straight up his ass for all I care_ , she seethed. But she kept her dark words locked up, saying instead, "I want to go for a walk. I'll be back before dinner." She turned her face to him, forcing innocence into her look. "Promise."

Brandon eyed her, seeing through her act, but nodded anyway; he bent forward to kiss her cheek and gently pushed her away. She smiled something small and jetted off, away from the sigiled tents and camps, around the curve of the castle's curtain walls, and over to the sea of bright silk pavilions of the singers and mummers. 

At the sight of the lone black tent, Lyanna's irritation returned, festering like poison in a rotted wound. How stupid she had been to believe the fortune teller; Maggy the Frog was a bloodsucker and a deceitful crone, nothing more!

But she deserved words, and Lyanna was more than happy to offer those up. Instead of calling out Maggy's name as would have been appropriate, she stormed through the dark tent flaps, blinking her eyes hard to adjust to the dim candlelight within. 

Maggy sat in the same chair she had been in when she first told Lyanna the lies of her future, like she was waiting for her. Her grimy black cloak was on again, the dark cowl of the hood hiding her eyes from view - but her mouth, that gummy, horrible mouth was _smiling_. 

"How dare you!" Lyanna yelled, slamming her hands against the tabletop. "You lied to me!"

Maggy's mouth stretched, infinitely entertained. "How is that, Lady Stark?"

Lyanna scowled deeply, her wolf's blood howling in her veins. "You said you would tell me what would become of my impending marriage. Well, guess what? I'm not even marrying Robert Baratheon! I'm betrothed to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen on the king's orders!"

Maggy laughed, deep and long and loud; the sound of it chilled Lyanna to the bone, worse than any winter or summer snow that stormed through Winterfell. The woman was _enjoying_ this.

"I did promise I would tell you what would become of your impending marriage," Maggy agreed, then paused, sneering. "But I never said which one." Two ghostly hands pushed back her hood. Where Maggy's eyes should have been were deep caves of the darkest black, as if Lyanna could reach her hand through the holes and grasp endlessly. 

Despite her fear, Lyanna raged. "You tricked me then! You knew I wasn't going to marry Robert; why didn't you tell me?!"

Maggy looked on with her blind, black holes. "Why would I have?"

Lyanna was breathing harder than a bull, her heart racing and her chest heaving. Adrenaline was rushing through her so quickly, she was concerned she might pass out. 

Her mind went back to her first meeting with Maggy, the words so deeply ingrained in Lyanna's mind, it took less than a second to conjure them. 

_"...and a grey cloak will be replaced by black."_ How foolish she had been to think of Robert's House colors of yellow and black when Maggy knew along what her words meant, phrasing them just deftly enough so that they could mean many things. 

Red and black were the colors of House Targaryen, and Rhaegar would throw his dragon's cloak over her shoulders in the Sept of Baelor in King's Landing before hundreds of onlookers. 

_"You will despise your husband as you bind your hand to his, with gods and men as your witnesses. Women will spit your name with venom and lust for your husband, even as he vows himself to you."_

How many times had she had to endure stupid Lysa Tully rambling on and on about the "beautiful Dragon Prince"? Far, far too many. And the Tully girl wasn't the only one; every lady, married or maiden, stared after Rhaegar with poorly concealed want in their eyes. All except Lyanna. 

She felt her breathing shallow and her eyesight narrowed to pinpoints. 

_"Your children will be the winged wolves..."_ Lyanna exhaled a shuddering breath; when a wolf mated with a dragon, what did you get?

"Why me?" She whispered aloud, hunching over. Her arms and legs felt like a hundred pounds each, like they were weighed down with the burden of truly unraveling a fortune. 

Maggy chuckled, and when Lyanna looked up, the woman's eyes were hers again, pale and awful and yellow. "Because, my sweet, you are one half of the greatest song that ever was or ever will be. You are the ice to his fire."

* * *

It was so dark outside when she left Maggy's tent that she rammed straight into a hard steel wall. Instantly, she grabbed her head, groaning. 

"My lady, are you alright?"

Her eyes flashed up and Ser Oswell Whent was standing before her, a small, almost imperceptible, smile on his face. He was alone, clad in the white steel of his Kingsguard armor. 

"I'm fine," she muttered, stepping away. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to escort you to the feast."

"Oh, kill me." She looked down to her clothes, breeches she stole from Benjen and the same large tunic she'd been wearing earlier, a Northern cloak thrown overtop her shoulders. She ought to wear this, show the prince what he was in for, then maybe he could convince his father to end the betrothal. 

But her brothers would be so disappointed, and as she imagined their faces frowning down at her, she caved, walking away from the bright silk tents of the mummers and singers. 

She stalked across the fields, feeling Ser Oswell's presence at her back like the weight of an extra cloak, thick and heavy. Once or twice, she stole a look back at him, but his face remained impassive, ever cool. 

When she came to her tent, Ser Oswell went to stand a distance away as Lyanna went inside. She dressed quickly, roughing a hand through her hair, then pulled on her boots. 

As she came out, Ser Oswell looked her over once, quickly, and then said, "You are late, my lady."

"My name is Lyanna," she sighed. She studied him. "Tell me, Ser, if I marry the prince, will you be my guard as well?"

" _When_ you marry Prince Rhaegar, I will be one of seven that guards you." He let his eyes trail over her, judging. "A good choice of dress."

She dropped her head down, scowling at the gown of gauzy red silk she wore. Yes, the prince would be pleased to see his betrothed donning his colors. _Damn it, Lya, think._

She had half a mind to go back to her tent and change into dirty breeches and Brandon's tunic, but something about Ser Oswell made her think the Kingsguard would not allow her to embarrass the prince. 

Instead, she pressed her lips together and made her way toward the castle's dining hall, Ser Oswell trailing her every step. His steps were so light, his movements so calculated, she couldn't even hear him behind her, though she _felt_ him there. 

_Is this my future?_ She thought to herself unhappily, stomping through the grass like a soldier prepared to die. _Devils at my face and ghosts at my back?_


	12. Power of Copper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a few readers ask me if there was going to be cheating/adultery/extramarital affairs, and I just want to assure you that NO, there will no cheating within the confines of Rhaegar and Lyanna's marriage - though that will not stop the offers of such from outside sources. Just an ironic little promise before this chapter.

_Lyanna Stark in red is obscenely captivating_ , Rhaegar decided when she stomped into the room, lip curled and eyes narrowed in annoyance. 

Ser Oswell was steering her in the direction of the dais where Rhaegar sat, and as she approached, he was struck by a thought. _She has all the presence of a true winter's blizzard - beautiful, but cold._

Her dress swished like fire when she danced with him after the announcement of their betrothal, swaying against him, lovely and dangerous. Men watched her with curiosity and desire, the lovely Northern girl that caught a dragon - and women watched him with lust and greed, a Targaryen prince soon to be in bed with the wolves.

What a pair they made.

When she was able to escape the hold of Rhaegar's arms, she went immediately to her brothers and Howland Reed, the curious little crannogman from the Neck that seemed to _see_ everything with a particular knowledgeability.

He'd heard things about the people of Greywater Watch, strange creatures that saw green dreams of the future, of the past, of the present. He wondered if Howland Reed could see the future, the end of the world in ice. That is, if he didn't get his three children, his Promised Prince.

The way Lyanna tried very hard not to look at him more than necessary made Rhaegar wonder if he would _ever_ get a child on her.

Rhaegar watched his betrothed as she flitted from brother to brother, sharing genuine smiles and laughs with them as they twirled her about the floor. Even Ser Oswell Whent was permitted a dance with her, holding her chastely as she attempted to get him to laugh.

But not for Rhaegar, not a second time. It was better off though; in only a few short minutes, he would be meeting with several lords to gain their support for his ascension and he needn't be distracted by an icy hot temper and a fair face.

Macy Tyrell, Eon Hunter, Lord Whent, and Jon Connington were going to meet with him, as well as the vastly influential Leyton Hightower, the nephew of Ser Gerold, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Ser Lewyn was still attempting to persuade his sister, the ruling princess of Dorne, to assist Rhaegar in his need.

If it came to a fight, if it came to war, when the time came to take his father's crown, Rhaegar would need as much help as he could get.

He stood from his chair, drifting over to where Lyanna danced with Howland Reed in a clumsy twirl. "May I cut in?" He asked.

Lord Reed's eyes, green as summer grass, flashed up as he stepped back, seeming to probe into Rhaegar's soul. Lyanna hid an eye roll when Rhaegar took her into his arms.

"I am to retire for bed soon," he lied.

If Brandon Stark didn't show at the meeting, he'd gladly speak with Lord Rickard personally when he came to King's Landing for the wedding. That is, if the lord wasn't past the point of fury at having his betrothal broken.

And if that proved fruitful, with the North came House Tully and House Arryn.

"Then you should go now," Lyanna suggested with saccharine kindness.

Rhaegar said, "You should rest well tonight. We ride for the capital at first light."

Her teeth clacked together audibly. "You truly won't let me go back to Winterfell then?"

He sighed deeply. "My father wishes for you to come to King's Landing immediately, and Lord Rickard has agreed by raven."

 _As if he could simply deny the king's wishes, no matter how mad._

"Am I to be your wife or your prisoner?" She snapped, breathing deeply through her nose.

He looked into her eyes. "My wife," he answered. "But I must warn you that the king does not take kindly to insolence, and his paranoia is legendary. And growing. Not even _I_ am immune to his sufferings."

At that, some of her fight seemed to chill. Her mouth parted and genuine fear shined in her eyes. "What kind of place am I going to?" She whispered.

Rhaegar frowned and stepped back from her as the dance ended, bending to kiss her knuckles. "Court."

* * *

In Lord Walter Whent's private solar, Leyton Hightower unsheathed the sword at his hip and knelt before Rhaegar, holding the length of his blade over his knee. "House Hightower is at your call, Your Highness." He looked up. "Though I do hope to call you 'Your Grace' soon enough, if you will excuse my boldness."

Rhaegar nodded, infinitely thankful. "I do as well, Lord Leyton."

Mace Tyrell cut in. "My prince, if I may, when do you plan on taking your father's throne? Why haven't you done so sooner?"

Rhaegar ignored the way the plump lord eyed him boldly, as if his presence in the solar permitted him as a close friend to the crown prince. "I had hoped that my father would improve. And now I see that I have been terribly wrong. As for the _when_...I need a child first, an heir, before I take action."

"With the Lady Lyanna," Eon Hunter said. "House Stark is powerful. Why is Lord Rickard, or even Brandon, not here?"

Embarrassment flooded Rhaegar's veins. He clenched a gloved fist. "I'm handling the support of House Stark privately." _In other words, I don't know if they want to embrace me or betray me_ , he thought with frustration.

Only Jon Connington, the prince's close friend, saw through that excuse, giving him a stern look. Jon was wary of an alliance with House Stark, hesitant of the ice lords that lived on their vast lands so far from Court, from true civilization.

"I urge you to keep the words from this room secret," Rhaegar continued. "In time, I will reach out to other Houses, but for now I would rather my plan be of the utmost secrecy."

Each man nodded solemnly, fully aware of the implications of their actions. Even speaking to the prince about this was considered an act of high treason, punishable by any death the king saw fit.

And they didn't call him the Mad King for nothing.

Each lord left with a bow, striding quietly from the room. Lord Whent sat in the chair in his solar, stroking his beard. "This is good," he mused.

Rhaegar agreed. "Very good."

"Now all you must do is marry and get a child on that girl as soon as possible."

A vivid image of Lyanna's slender waist curved with pregnancy came to his mind. "Yes..." He took a deep breath, changing direction. "I hope to take the throne with as little bloodshed as possible," he sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

Lord Whent watched him curiously. "I wouldn't let my heart hope for that, my prince. If bloodshed is what you fear, I would suggest renouncing the crown."

A tired smile plucked at Rhaegar's mouth. "Thank you for all of your help, Lord Whent. I hope to see you again seen...my wedding perhaps?"

Lord Whent escorted him to the door where Ser Arthur stood guard. "I will be there."

Walking back to his chambers, Rhaegar noticed just how tired he was, his fatigue mounting considerably. That is, until be barreled straight into a body of bones.

"Princess Elia," he said, surprised.

Elia gasped, furiously wiping away tears that slicked her cheeks. "Your Highness, I did not see you. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," he replied softly.

"Of course," she murmured distractedly before blinking hard. A fire seemed to burn out the sadness in her eyes. "Why?" She demanded suddenly. "Why her?"

"Excuse me?" 

"Lady Stark," she answered.

 _Lyanna_ , he corrected her mentally, out of habit at having been admonished by Lyanna so many times already.

He inhaled sharply. "The king chose her for me."

Elia scowled, breaking up the loveliness in her face. "You told me you were able to choose...?"

"I was supposed to," he admitted, "but my father believes an alliance with the North will prove powerful for both Lyanna and myself." _My father is a madman with no control over his thoughts, fetishes, or actions._

"Lady Lyanna," Elia mused with a mirthless smirk. "Just a child really."

"She will turn sixteen before our wedding," he pointed out.

"Yes," Elia chuckled, looking up at him. Her head fell to the side as she assessed him, dark eyes boiling with desire. "I'd be yours...if you asked."

He jerked in shock more than anything. "My lady-"

"In Dorne," she interrupted, "paramours are not such a scandalous thing." She trailed a thin finger down his chest. "I do not have to be your wife, but I could be your lover." She smiled wickedly, a stark contrast to the tears that had trailed down her cheeks only moments ago. "And I assure you, I am a very good lover."

In his silence, she continued. "Marriages do not always equal love, equal passion." Her eyes suddenly seemed not so terribly different from the scheming green hue of Cersei Lannister's. "What is a wife if nothing more than a womb to quicken your heirs? Ours could be a relationship borne of fire, the sun and the dragon. And let us not forget that Dorne has never kneeled to a dragon before. I wouldn't mind making that exception."

Rhaegar cleared his throat uncomfortably and Elia giggled, tipping forward to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Think about it, my prince." And then she was gone, nothing more than a copper wisp in the wind.


	13. A Merging

The Crownlands stretched across the horizon in a flattened broad expanse, reaching farther than the eye could see, like a shaggy green shawl blanketing the earth. It was beautiful, similar to the North in that there were uninterrupted miles of wide open spaces; but where Winterfell ensured you were constantly wrapped in leather and furs, the Crownlands blew a mild breeze across Lyanna's skin, no hotter than bath water.

They had been traveling for the better part of a week and a half - herself, Prince Rhaegar, Sers Oswell and Arthur, and a handful of Gold Cloaks she'd yet to learn the names of. Atop her black Northern destrier, Lyanna tried her damndest to stay quiet and to stay fast; she wouldn't have it said that the Stark girl couldn't ride or shut up.

But when night fell, it was a different story. Dinner had been her favorite time at home in Winterfell, the time in which she'd trade japes with Benjen, when she would nag Brandon and laugh with her father. On the Kingsroad, she felt entirely, truly lonely.

The only surprising appeasement to her solitary travels was Ser Oswell Whent. An imposing Kingsguard with chestnut hair and a hard face of inherent sternness, Lyanna had not expected him to be quite much of anything. 

As it turned out, Oswell Whent was a true riot once he opened up; over the days, Lyanna learned that he was sarcastic to a fault, dry, and particularly a fan of dark, oftentimes rowdy, jokes and stories. He kept her smiling as they dined on meager fare each night, and for a few good moments, she could forget her destination.

On the ninth night, after a supper of sausage and hard cheese on black bread, Ser Oswell asked her, "What were you doing in that black tent?"

At this, Rhaegar and Arthur, the latter of which had been cleaning his blade Dawn, paused and looked over. They were only a stone's throw away, situated across the campfire from herself and Oswell.

"Black tent?" She repeated, momentarily confused.

Oswell took a swig from his skin of wine, eyeing her. "When I came to escort you to the feast," he clarified, "I bumped into you outside a black tent."

Realization dawned on Lyanna, and as it did, embarrassment followed. She could only imagine how they would tease her, scowl at her in condescension; did she really want to regale her meeting with Maggy to a hock of Southerners, only to have them scoff and play her up as a "supersititious Northerner"?

She shook her head. "It was nothing."

Ser Arthur, the shining Dornish Kingsguard, grinned, his purple eyes sparkling. "Now I'm intrigued. You must tell us." The wine had reddened his golden cheeks.

Rhaegar studied her openly, unafraid of who may see. His eyes seemed black in the night, no trace of purple in their hue, as licking red campfire reflected in them ominously. Lyanna thought he had never looked more like a dragonlord, all silver skin and silver hair and disturbing eyes and regal bone structure.

"It was a fortune teller," Lyanna finally muttered, ducking her chin to avoid eye contact.

"A fortune teller," Oswell repeated, sounding genuinely amused. "And what did this teller say?"

Maggy's words were tattooed on her mind forever, and there was no way they would fade, even if a thousand years passed over her. But she also didn't want to repeat them to the crown prince, his White Swords, and a handful of Gold Cloaks that were within listening distance. She shook her head again, mute.

"Come now," Ser Arthur coaxed with a small smile. "I want to know the Lady Lyanna Stark's fortune."

Lyanna wondered if they would have ever been so bold if it were not for the Dornish wine Rhaegar had popped with supper. She'd had a few swigs herself, and the lovely spice did pleasant, warm things to her chest.

"What would a Northern girl want to know about her future?" Oswell mused playfully. "How much snow Winterfell will get? When winter is _actually_ coming?"

She snorted. "Why would I ask about the weather at Winterfell if I was to live at Storm's End?" She asked rhetorically.

Oswell tipped his wine skin at her. "Fair point, my lady."

"Lyanna," she corrected quietly.

Rhaegar's voice was as unexpected as it was soft, and yet it still sliced at her. "Did you wonder how your life with Robert Baratheon would be?"

The way she jerked, her eyes widening, her ensuing silence, told the three men everything they needed to know. Some of their playfulness had seemed to dim respectfully at the realization. 

"And?" Rhaegar prompted. "What did the fortune teller have to say about Lord Robert?"

Caught in his gaze, she responded, "Nothing, actually. Though I didn't realize that at the time."

The men tipped their heads in confusion.

She explained, "Maggy - that was her name - never specified _who_ my husband would be when she foretold my fortune."

Rhaegar's mouth formed an 'o'. "Ah."

"I should have guessed really," Lyanna laughed, stealing a gulp of wine from Oswell's skin.

"What do you mean?" Arthur wondered, leaning back against a log.

In the warm fog that settled over her brain, Lyanna said, "My children couldn't very well be the winged wolves if I married a stag."

Rhaegar's eyes flashed up instantly, keen interest evident in his gaze. Lyanna realized what she had said, what she had _implied_ , and heat rushed to her face. She said, "It's just some foolish nonsense that mummers spew to get your coin."

Oswell chuckled, breaking the tension. "And how much coin did you offer for that little tidbit?"

 _None_ , she thought, _I paid the blood price._ She shrugged instead.

"And that's all you were given?" Oswell scoffed. "I would have asked for my money back."

"No," Lyanna interjected. Rhaegar was staring at her, hard and intense enough to make her skin crawl.

She thought about blurting out the bit where Maggy had promised her maidenhead would stay intact long after their wedding night, but that would start an argument - and she wasn't going to fight him about that. Not tonight, at least.

"She said other things," Lyanna continued vaguely, almost defensively.

"Like?" Arthur prompted.

"Oh, it's stupid!" Lyanna burst, throwing her arms up in exasperation. "The woman just wanted to butter me up, so she told me a bunch of stuff about my children being great."

Something was shining in Rhaegar's eyes, a tangible thing that seemed ready to come out and take Lyanna by the shoulders. The moonlight created a ring of shining silver atop the crown of his head. His fingers were claws against his knees as he bent forward, intent to catch every word that came out of her mouth.

"Great?" Arthur repeated, suddenly sobered.

"Yeah," Lyanna shrugged, "something along the lines of them being the greatest that ever lived. That my firstborn would be the...the, I don't know."

But she did. She remembered every syllable Maggy had uttered to her in that dark tent with the scent of smoke and blood in the air. _"Your three children will be the greatest that the world has ever seen, your firstborn the Promised One."_

"The what?" Rhaegar murmured, prompting her to finish her sentence.

She looked up at him, suddenly wary to share her fortune at all. He was too interested, too bright-eyed at these innocuous words of an old crone she'd found among mummers and singers.

But Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur were staring at her, too, and she felt the pressure build within her like the tide of the ocean. "The 'Promised One'," she said lightly, attempting to make a joke of it so they would stop their queer looks. 

"Was there..." Arthur said, "was there anything else?"

Rhaegar looked like he had seen a ghost, unblinking and breathing hard like he'd run across Westeros.

Lyanna drank down the rest of the wine, ignoring Rhaegar's sharp inhale of breath as she said, " _'And their blood will freeze and flame with that of ice and fire'_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rickard POV next chapter...


	14. A Dragon's Order

When the Stark banners were spotted waving a mile off of Winterfell, Lord Rickard Stark did not feel the instant alleviation that he usually did, that quick relief at knowing his children had come home. Instead, all he felt was dread. 

The weight of King Aerys' letter sat like an anvil in his stomach, heavy and crushing with the dark words of the Mad King. 

_Lyanna Stark is formally betrothed to the Crown Prince and Lord of Dragonstone, Rhaegar of the House Targaryen, by official decree of King Aerys II._

When the raven came, bearing a letter with the waxed seal of a three-headed dragon, Rickard's first thought was, _Aerys knows, he's found out my plans to align against him._

Instead came the news of a formal betrothal of royal order to his sole daughter, instantly and effectively severing any ties Rickard might have produced for Robert and Lyanna. 

With a stroke of a quill pen against parchment, the brawn of Rickard's ambitions against the crown had crumbled like the charred remains of paper in flames. Robert Baratheon's lands and bannermen constituted a good majority of the strength Rickard both needed and wanted to rebel against the Mad King. 

Of course, he still had the force of the North, the knights and lords of the Vale, and soon the strength of the Riverlands. But the Stormlands were an invaluable asset to Rickard's cause, and to lose that connection was a great hit. 

_Lyanna, my Lyanna, Princess and future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_ , Rickard mused, a wry smile upon his lips. At least he had only ever heard good things of Prince Rhaegar, how kind and noble the man was. 

But his daughter was a free spirit, with roots in the North, firmly planted and not easily uprooted, even by dragons. 

He could still recall the day Lyanna received her very first horse, could see it as plain as if the ghost of his little girl were right in front of him, all smiles and dark hair and intense excitement. Only nine at the time, Lyanna had tittered all day long around the grounds atop her brand new horse, an Akhal-Teke he'd bought from Highgarden, with a coat that shined like cloth-of-silver. 

It took two days for her to name her silver horse, after consulting with Brandon, who had come home from Barrowton for a visit, after testing names out on her tongue through two long dinners, after scouring the library's stories for something, _anything_ fitting for her beautiful steed. 

At last, she named the horse Meraxes, after the silver-scaled dragon of Rhaenys, the Targaryen sister-queen of Aegon the Conquerer. Day in and day out, Lyanna rode Meraxes; around the training yard, across the vast Winterfell grounds, through the godswood with Benjen hot on her heels. 

If you ever needed to find that little girl, all you had to do was stand still and listen for the battle cries of "Faster, Meraxes, faster!" or "I'm Rhaenys Targaryen!"

When Brandon eventually came home for good from his fostering in Barrowton, Lyanna clung to the presence of her old brother. She relished following him around, pretending to wield Valyrian steel as she swished Benjen's practice sword around. 

She was eleven when Brandon told her the story of Danny Flint, the famed young woman who pretended to be a boy in order to join the Night's Watch, whose life was cut short after she was raped and murdered at the Nightfort. 

It was a gruesome, dark tale for an eleven-year old girl, and it had earned Brandon a scolding for a week straight. 

But from then on out, Lyanna stole Benjen's breeches and tunics as often as she could, and whenever she rode her silver horse Meraxes - until it died a couple of years later - you could hear her scream from the godswood, "I am Danny Flint!"

In the end, a party of twenty ended up riding out from Winterfell to the capital: Lord Rickard, Benjen, Ned, and a slew of his household. Brandon had ranted and raged, insisting to see his only sister wed, but Lord Rickard fixed his eldest with one stern look and said, "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

He would have made Benjen stay if it weren't for the fact that he and Lyanna were as close as twins, and besides that, Brandon was heir to the North. He needed to be in Winterfell alone; it would be his soon enough. 

And so the Warden of the North, and two of his four children, set off for King's Landing to witness the first ever union between a wolf and a dragon.


	15. Welcome to Hell

Under the cover of darkness, King's Landing was hardly more impressive than a sweeping fisher's town. The air was heavy with the stench of fish and feces, a raunchy scent that pervaded the senses immediately. With a pang, Lyanna wished for the clean smell of snow and ice of Winterfell. 

Despite the hour, ragged children raced down the streets of Flea Bottom, chasing each other with squeals of delight, their skin patched with streaks of brown and red. Half-naked whores lounged outside tavern doors, their faces gaunt and glittering with determination, as filthy men grasped at their thighs and breasts. 

Everyone, from men to women to children, stood rigid, at attention, when the gleaming white of the Kingsguard armor flashed in the moonlight. They stared up at Lyanna and Rhaegar with wide, pale eyes, hungry faces set in hesitant smiles and narrowed suspicion and rare apathy. 

Lyanna tried to smile back, her heart sinking with sympathy at the state of the scared and hungry people. Beside her, Rhaegar waved to a group of boys who shrieked his name. 

"Prince Rhaegar!"

Ser Arthur and Oswell tightened up, each one coming to flank them - Oswell on Lyanna's left and Arthur on Rhaegar's right, a human shield to separate her from the possible affects of the common people. 

They approached a tall gate of blood red stone, dragons carved into the sides. The portcullis was raised and a Gold Cloak stood guard, nodding as they passed through. 

A round of servants came rushing forth at their arrival, grabbing for their things slung over a wagon. Lyanna dismounted her horse quickly and quietly, standing uncertainly off to the side. 

Oswell came over. "Come, my lady." 

She followed as he walked behind Rhaegar and Ser Arthur. Inside the Red Keep, the stone was bleached pale in the moonlight, quiet even as she knew thousands of people resided there. 

"Where are we going?" She asked in a whisper, afraid that if she raised her voice, the walls would shatter. 

"The throne room," Rhaegar said, dropping back to walk beside her. 

He'd been acting strange ever since she told them about her experience with Maggy. He watched her more, wrote letters more, although they'd had no ravens to send them. 

"Why are we going to the throne room?"

Rhaegar sighed quietly. "To greet my father and mother."

At the mention of the Mad King, Lyanna stiffened. She'd only seen the king from afar, took in the ropes of silver hair and claw-like hands and beady, suspicious eyes. She didn't want to see that up close, to be forced to exchange with him. 

A Kingsguard stood sentry at the massive doors that led to the throne room, a spray of white hair atop his head. His face was blank, but kind somehow. 

"Ser Barristan," Rhaegar greeted the man. 

"Your Highness," Ser Barristan bowed. 

"How is the king?" Rhaegar dared to ask, sweeping his eyes over the doors. 

"Asleep," Barristan answered, "the queen, however, awaits your arrival." At that, the White Knight pushed open the door. 

Huge barrels of fire were burning heat into the throne room, their light casting serpentine shadows across the stone walls. Massive dragon skulls hung from the ceiling, pale and menacing, their largest teeth even taller than Ser Arthur or Rhaegar. 

The Iron Throne was nothing like Lyanna imagined; thirty feet high, and forged of a thousand melted blades, it looked more like some monster from a nightmare than a seat for a king. 

At a chair to the right sat a slim woman, her spiraling hair the same metallic shade as Rhaegar's. She had a beautiful face, oh it was beautiful, but she looked tired and sad. She stood when Rhaegar and Lyanna approached, immediately opening her arms for her son. 

Lyanna watched Rhaegar embrace his mother, gently folding her into his arms, holding the queen as if she was glass. When she stepped back from his arms, she caught Lyanna's eyes and smiled. 

"Come closer, lovely girl."

Lyanna's footsteps were quieter than whispers as she ghosted toward Queen Rhaella. She felt her heart pounding in her chest, her blood racing. She didn't know much of the wife of the Mad King, except that she was also his sister. 

Would she be off-kilter like her brother-husband? Would she be cruel, or hot and cold by turns? Lyanna was curious of the woman who could both endure Aerys and produce Rhaegar. 

Up close, the queen was terribly gorgeous. With violet eyes that glittered in an aristocratic face, Lyanna had no doubt where Rhaegar got his beauty from. 

Queen Rhaella laid her hand upon Lyanna's cheek. "You must be Lyanna Stark. I am so pleased to meet you." She wrapped her arms around Lyanna's shoulders, smelling like a field of lavender. 

"Pleased to meet you as well, Your Grace," Lyanna whispered. Over the queen's shoulder, Rhaegar watched her. 

"I hear we have a wedding to plan," Queen Rhaella said with a gentle smile, roving her eyes over Lyanna's face. 

Rhaegar stepped forward. "We do, Mother."

Rhaella's purple eyes brightened considerably. "I am so happy to welcome you to our family," she said to Lyanna, wrapping her arm around Rhaegar's elbow. "It's past time my son has wed, and you will make a beautiful bride."

At the mention of her joining with Rhaegar, ice filled Lyanna's veins. She managed a weak nod, casting her eyes to the floor. The crackle of flames filled the silence, and Lyanna wondered how many people had heard the same thing in this very room, the sound of fire the last thing they ever heard. 

"I've had chambers prepared for you," the queen said kindly. "Ser Jaime," she called out. 

At that, Lyanna's head snapped up. She'd been witness to the farce that was Jaime Lannister's induction to the Kingsguard, but she had not seen him in the throne room upon entering. The Young Lannister Lion looked proud even when his face was wiped of expression, hair like beaten gold pushed off his forehead. 

"Please show Lady Lyanna to her rooms in the Maidenvault."

Jaime Lannister inclined his head and began to walk. Lyanna followed at his brisk pace, roaming her eyes over him. He couldn't have been much older than herself, sixteen perhaps if his slight frame was anything to go by. He was a beautiful specimen, golden hair and golden skin over white armor, but that swagger to his walk proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ser Jaime thought himself above escorting her anywhere. 

He was quiet as a summer's wind as he led her through winding hallways and darkened corridors. The farther away they walked from the throne room, the safer she felt. Although the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell, Lyanna felt as if Ser Jaime was leading her through a maze. 

Finally they came through a towering oak door hinged in iron that screamed in defiance when Ser Jaime pushed it open. He led her to the door at the end of the hallway. 

"Your chambers," he murmured lowly, then swiveled and strode away, the oak door falling shut behind him with a groan. 

* * *

His mother looked heartbreaking in the flickering of the throne room, her skin pale but stark with the evidence of his father's...preferences - scratches, bruises, an indentation of teeth. Rhaegar wondered who had been fed to the flames recently. 

"Are you well, Mother?" He asked softly, walking with her to Maegor's Holdfast, the castle within the Red Keep where the royal apartments were situated. 

"Viserys is well," she answered, "and you are well, therefore _I_ am well."

Rhaegar grimaced but knew not to persist. Queen Rhaella was a proud woman in her suffering and did not like to be fussed over, no matter how cruel the afflictions. He tightened his fist in rare anger, wishing once and for all his father was dead, rotting in the ground. 

_I just need an heir first..._ he thought. And then his mind inevitably went back to Lyanna and the fortune teller's prophecy. It was no coincidence; Lyanna and he were meant to have children, to create the three lives it would take to save the world from eternal darkness. 

He already had half a dozen letters written and ready to be sent to Maester Aemon at the Wall. 

"Quite a beauty," Rhaella mused. Rhaegar frowned, shaken from his thoughts. "Your betrothed," she clarified.

Rhaegar hummed. "She is lovely."

"You named her Queen of Love and Beauty."

He nodded. "I did."

Rhaella smiled that pretty smile only reserved for her two children. "She will make a good match for you."

"She dislikes me," he admitted, his mother's presence tearing truths from him. 

"She _distrusts_ you," Rhaella gently corrected him. "She's a young girl torn from her home and taken to the South."

Rhaegar pointed out, "She was intended for Robert Baratheon. Storm's End is in the South."

"Yes, dear," his mother allowed, "but the capital is no great place for a young girl, let alone a Northerner."

Rhaegar knew what his mother meant. This was no place for Lyanna because the king lived here, and anyone was privy to his moods. For the thousandth time, he teetered on the edge of telling his mother about his plans to overthrow his father, to reach up and cast him down from power. 

But one thought kept him from spilling: if scratches and bruises and bites were what his father did to her when he was seeking pleasure, he didn't want to know what he'd do when the king sought vengeance.


	16. A Parent's Advice

The open window filtered in a breeze hot and heavy with the stench of the city, coiling the weight of her dress around her legs like a snake.

"Close that window!" The small woman kneeling at Lyanna's feet barked. "And get me more pins!"

A frightened servant girl scurried out of Lyanna's rooms like her heels were on fire. Lyanna sighed, her feet aching fiercely from standing for hours on end, her skin raw from being pricked with needles a thousand times over.

For a week straight, a team of King's Landing's best tailors had come to Lyanna's rooms in the Maidenvault, all hellbent on creating the perfect wedding dress for the fast-approaching royal wedding. They were stern women, the seamstresses, bringing with them trunks of fabrics - chiffon, silks, Myrish lace, shining brocade - and pins and needles and thread and ribbons and beading.

It was a hellish nightmare from which Lyanna wished could wake up from and shake away. But, every morning when the sun peeked over the horizon, she was hustled from bed by the calloused hands and gruff accent of her new handmaiden.

After she had climbed from bed, the seamstresses would pile in her room and begin their work on her wedding dress. Lyanna was accustomed to the thick, practical wools of Northern ware, the simplicity of the muted colors, the warmth of the furs and leather.

 _Not_ the frilly silk frocks that the Southron girls boasted, their cleavage perpetually out on display for everyone to look upon.

But, as the head tailor had reminded her none too gently, this was no dress for a tea date or to dine with lords. This was a wedding gown for the soon-to-be princess of Rhaegar Targaryen, and it would look as such.

So, Lyanna closed her eyes, imagining the bite of the snows at Winterfell, and stood on shaky legs all throughout the days.

"Absolutely stunning," a silver voice said from her door. Startled, Lyanna looked up, met with the sight of Queen Rhaella.

The tittering seamstresses immediately abandoned their work to curtsy; the queen drifted forth, nodding her head at them, and came to Lyanna's side. "How are you, dear?"

It had been almost two weeks since Lyanna first arrived in King's Landing, and despite that length of time, she had mostly confined herself to the Maidenvault. She took her meals there and, besides the rotation of guards at the heavy oaken doors, she remained isolated.

She had only seen the queen a handful of times, and Rhaegar even less so; not that she minded, actually. She wished for her brothers more than she would ever wish for a Targaryen for company.

Still, Lyanna felt an odd sort of allegiance to the kind sister-queen of mad Aerys; the woman was staggeringly beautiful, a trait that had more than passed on to her eldest son, but she was also sweet and mindful. The bruises dotting Rhaella's lily-white skin, though, made Lyanna sick.

"I'm well, Your Grace," Lyanna murmured, trying to avoid those earnest amythest eyes.

"Call me Rhaella," the queen suggested gently, "we are to be family soon after all."

Tears of frustration welled in Lyanna's eyes, and she tilted her chin down to avoid eye contact. A thin, surprisingly warm finger tucked under Lyanna's chin, pushing up.

Rhaella's face was open and full of understanding, a muted kinship shining in her eyes. "Give us the room please," she said aloud. The seamstresses dropped their pins and beads, and scuffled away, shutting the door behind them.

"I know what it is to be scared to marry," Rhaella began, coming around to face Lyanna fully. With the sun shining so bright, the scratches marring the queen's skin were incredibly easy to decipher.

"On my wedding day, I tried to beg my father not to make me marry Aerys," Rhaella divulged, folding her hands together. "He was the not the kindest of brothers, and I knew he would not make the kindest of husbands." The scratches and bruises seemed to scream at Lyanna, begging for her attention, red and black like the colors of House Targaryen.

"Rhaegar," Rhaella said, her voice softening, "is not his father."

Lyanna's eyes widened, her heart pounding at her thoughts having been caught so easily. "I never-"

"Do not fret," Rhaella interrupted gently, "I know the saying. _'Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.'_ "

Lyanna nodded, feeling suddenly guilty. Hadn't she accused Rhaegar in the godswood at Harrenhal of being dragonspawn, of having tainted blood flow in his veins? Facing his mother, the gentle woman of exceeding beauty and kindness, Lyanna felt no more than a little girl playing at a woman.

"Rhaegar has always been special," the queen said, drifting around the room. "Melancholic in nature, my son is not cruel or wicked or selfish. He puts the needs of others before his own, and before long, you will be his wife." Rhaella looked into Lyanna's eyes, boring into them with a sudden ferocity. "He will never mistreat you. I taught him better than that."

Hot tears rolled down Lyanna's cheeks, as if she was reduced to a sniffling toddler in the mere presence of a loving mother. Rhaella tutted and strode forth, taking Lyanna into her arms; she soothed a hand down Lyanna's hair, shushing every time Lyanna sniffled or sobbed.

Eventually, when she'd calmed, Rhaella let her go, wiping a thumb across the tear tracks marking Lyanna's skin. She held Lyanna's chin between her finger and thumb, and admired the Stark girl's face.

"You will be good for Rhaegar," the queen said, voice thick with assured confidence, "and, if you let him, I think he could be good for you, too."

* * *

A week later, on Lyanna's sixteenth name day, the banners of House Stark were spotted on the Kingsroad. With only mere days left before the wedding, Lyanna's nerves were frayed, and she spent day and night running holes in her floor from worrying about her family's arrival. 

The Mad King had assured her a few days into her stay at the Red Keep, that should her father and brothers not make it in time, the wedding would commence as scheduled and he would escort her down the aisle in lieu of Lord Rickard. The very thought of holding Aerys Targaryen's scabbed, bleeding arm as she waltzed through the Sept of Baelor to his son made Lyanna want to hurl...or at least hurl herself off a tower.

Seeing her father's face again, after so many months, made something thaw within her. Upon seeing him, Lyanna ran and jumped into his arms, bombarded with the smell of the North and _home_. Ned caught her next, gently folding her into an embrace, and then it was Benjen's turn, squeezing Lyanna tight within his wiry arms. 

"Brandon?" Lyanna asked, although she knew the answer.

"There must always be a Stark-" Rickard began.

"In Winterfell," she added softly. She understood, had always known the rule of their family, but it still stung to be missing her oldest brother from arguably the most important event of her life.

"Lord Rickard," Rhaegar said from behind her, coming forth to greet her father. "I am pleased to meet you."

Rickard straightened, and bowed from the waist. "You as well, Your Highness."

"I apologize for the king's absence. He is unwell today."

Lyanna had thankfully been able to avoid the king's presence for the most part, but there were a few instances in which she was required to dine with the royal family, an unpleasant affair if there ever was one. The meals took thrice as long as any normal dinner should have, Aerys stopping every course to be tasted four times over by two different tasters before he would even think about taking a bite.

But it was when Aerys was alert, when his eyes weren't clouded over in thought, that made Lyanna's skin crawl. His eyes, no longer a dreamy purple so characteristic of the Targaryens, were black with suspicion, and they always seemed to be pointed on Lyanna.

"I understand," Rickard assured him.

"I am sure you are all tired from your long journey," Rhaegar said softly, "I've had rooms prepared for you in the Maidenvault, where Lyanna is currently staying. I would show you there myself, if that is alright with you."

Rickard nodded, and servants came forth to retrieve their meager luggage. Lyanna raced ahead, followed by a sprinting Benjen and a slower Ned. Left alone, Rhaegar and Lord Rickard made the trek to the Maidenvault side-by-side.

When Rhaegar was sure they were safely alone, he said, "I want to apologize, Lord Stark."

The older Northern man threw him a sharp look of confusion. "For what, Your Highness?"

"Call me Rhaegar," he insisted. "And I wanted to apologize for any trouble my engagement to Lyanna might have caused you with Lord Robert Baratheon."

Instead of offering assurances, or sweeping away Rhaegar's concern, Rickard said, "Lord Robert was admittedly incensed at the ruining of his betrothal to Lyanna. He grew...quite fond of my daughter."

"Rightly so," Rhaegar added diplomatically, pushing open the heavy oak door to the Maidenvault. The sounds of fevered chatter filled the long hall. He led Rickard to the first door on the right, where a fire was already burning flames against the dim light evening provided the room. Servants rushed in and out of the room, depositing trunks and bags, lighting candles that sat in a prim line atop the mantle.

When they left, Rhaegar shut the door behind them. "Lord Stark, as you were not present at the tourney of Harrenhal, I was unable to speak with you about a pressing issue."

"What issue?" Rickard asked gruffly, drinking deeply from the cup of wine left beside his bed. 

"The issue of taking my father's throne," Rhaegar came out with it.

Rickard's eyes flashed up, and he set the cup down. "To speak of such is treason..." He said, testing the waters.

Rhaegar nodded, looking genuinely anguished at being reminded so. "I know. However, the realm suffers under his rule, and he grows madder with each passing day. He..." Rhaegar paused, swallowing, "feeds people to the flames for sport. I cannot allow this to go on any longer.

"I've sought to secure alliances with the Great Houses, so that when the time comes, I have the support I need to depose my father."

Rickard breathed deeply, feeling at once both extremely relieved and taut with worry: relief at knowing the realm could prosper once the gentle Dragon Prince came into power, but worry for his daughter who was soon to be a permanent fixture in the king's circle, privy to his moods at a whim's notice.

"You have the North's allegiance," Rickard vowed, kneeling before the prince. No matter if he did or didn't give his support to Rhaegar, his daughter would be a princess of House Targaryen, therefore it was in Rickard's best interest to remain in the loop.

"Thank you, Lord Stark," Rhaegar breathed, "your support is crucial."

Rickard stood, taking another drink from his wine cup. "When do you plan to take the throne?"

Sighing, Rhaegar said, with a hint of embarrassment, "Once Lyanna and I conceive a child. Should something happen to me in the chaos of overthrowing my father, I'll need an heir." _My firstborn will be the Promised One_ , he remembered from Lyanna's fortune teller. _The dragon must have three heads, but it_ needs _the prince that was promised._

"I see," Rickard murmured. "I trust that you will keep my daughter safe in your father's midst? You will see no harm is done to her? You will treat her with respect and kindness?" It was over the line to ask such of a prince, as it was a husband's right to do whatever he wanted with a wife, but if Rhaegar Targaryen wanted the loyalty of the Starks, he'd damn well take precious care of the daughter of Winterfell.

"Of course, my lord," Rhaegar promised. "I assure you, I am not my father. And I will do my utmost to ensure her continued safety here in King's Landing."

Rickard nodded; he had never heard a bad thing uttered about Prince Rhaegar, had always heard the prince was just and well-read and a proven warrior, but there were secrets of the bedroom that might never become common knowledge and for that, Rickard wanted peace of mind that Lyanna would be cared for. 

"Let me give you some advice, then, from a father about his daughter."

Rhaegar nodded, grateful for anything about the willful Northern girl he was soon to marry.

Rickard said, "Be careful with her, and take caution. She is of the North, and a wild thing because of it." Rickard caught himself smiling, thinking of his little girl at nine riding her lovely silver horse and shouting to the skies, _'I am Rhaenys Targaryen!'_

"Lyanna is like a winter storm," he said, "beautiful to behold...but violent to withstand."


	17. An Iron Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked what I wanted Lyanna's wedding dress to look like, so I decided to include a picture.   
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On the day of the wedding, the gods saw fit to send down a torrential rainfall that threatened to drown the city of King's Landing with its vigor; sheet after sheet of water poured from the sky, washing clean every surface it fell upon. 

Lyanna thought it fitting, that perhaps it was the old gods, the gods of her father, that sought such vengeance on her wedding day. Because it was so gloomy, every available candle in the castle had to be lit, leaving behind disfigured humps of wax that dripped to the floor after hours of burning. 

In the candlelight, Lyanna's wedding dress shimmered magnificently. It had taken three weeks to fully complete, with countless hours of Lyanna unwillingly on her feet as a model, but the result, she begrudgingly admitted, was breathtaking. 

The dress' bodice was fashioned after a corset, with swaths of white lace sewn over top. The bodice was heavy with ornate beadwork, the lace embroidered with pearls in swirling seven-pointed star and crescent moon motifs.

A direwolf pin, silver and snarling, was set between her breasts, howling at the pearl moons and stars sewn into the lace corset. 

From the waist down, the dress skirts flowed with sweeping layers of ivory silk and chiffon that were edged with fine cream-colored Myrish lace. 

Her hair had been braided in several braids down her back, then twisted and pinned around each other to make a bun at the base of her neck. Wisps of loose hair fell around her face, tendrils wild and romantic-looking. 

Her stomach was churning fiercely, like an old ship wading through the angriest of summer seas. She felt bile rise to the base of her throat, threatening and poisonous, and she wondered how angry the king would be if she vomited all over Prince Rhaegar. 

Breathing deeply, Lyanna shrugged on her maiden's cloak and clasped the front; it was a comforting weight to her shoulders, but also a terrible, vivid reminder of what she had to expect at the end of the night - the loss of her virtue, her innocence, the very thing that drew the line between remaining a girl and becoming a woman. 

The maiden cloak itself was beautiful, long gauzy material of the palest grey, a white growling direwolf of fine silk emblazoned over top. Its face was stamped with a thousand shimmering crystals, a luxury insisted upon and provided by the royal family, so that with every twitch of her shoulders the wolf shined brilliantly. One red eye, a magnificently fat ruby, winked in the light. 

"You are beautiful," Lord Rickard said as he entered the room, clothed in the leather finery of the North. 

She wrapped her arms around him, breathing in the scent of Winterfell and _home_. She wanted to cry, badly, but the tears wouldn't fall, instead blurring her vision so badly she couldn't distinguish the hazy human-shaped forms bustling around her. 

_Good_ , she thought, _maybe I won't have to look at Rhaegar at the altar._

"Are you ready?" Her father asked, taking her elbow gently. 

She shoved the heel of her hand across her eyes impatiently and nodded, lifting her chin up like a warrior going off to battle. _I am a wolf of Winterfell_ , she thought to herself, _and I will not kowtow to dragons._

But the walk to the Sept of Baelor felt like a death march; with each step, she felt fainter and sicker, and for the first time she found herself wondering if this would have been any better had it been Robert Baratheon she was walking to. 

But that thought was useless, definitively so as two pages pulled open the massive doors to the Sept and the room was open to her. She took in the unfamiliar surroundings with distaste and revulsion. 

_This is how the Southerners worship?_ Lyanna thought unkindly. 

The sept was built with seven soaring walls of smooth, unblemished stone; at each of the seven walls stood a towering statue to represent one of the Seven gods, each inlaid with so many precious jewels and gems that, if sold, could feed the poverty of King's Landing for years. 

The windows were shaped like seven-pointed stars, every point a different color of dyed glass. The thick rainfall outside dripping down the windows threw warped shadows across the floors, and the ten thousand candles shimmering from the perimeter of the room cast dancing light against the walls.

Lyanna wished they would burn the entire massive place down. 

Among the crowd, she hardly recognized a single face, though they all stared unabashedly at her - some smiling, some curious, some hateful. She held tight to Rickard's arm as they floated down the center aisle, both Starks keeping their eyes straight forward. 

Ned and Benjen stood on the left side of the audience at the very front, both smiling encouragingly at her. She felt her heart sink, her sickness returning, and she wanted to run, run, _run_. 

They climbed the steps that led to the altar before the looming statues of the Mother and Father, and Lyanna's nails dug into her father's hand as he brought her forth to the prince. 

In her last act of defiance as a free woman, she stared at the hollow of Rhaegar's throat as the High Septon began his droning. He talked so long and so much that Lyanna was unsure if anyone was even truly listening to him. 

_She_ surely wasn't. 

And that was why, after a time, as her eyes focused in and out on a point on the prince's black velvet doublet, she jumped when he squeezed her hand. 

Her eyes flashed up without meaning to and she was struck with a sudden inexplicable awe by Rhaegar's beauty as she took in her soon-to-be husband on her wedding day. 

Had she ever looked at him so closely before? His skin was lily-fair, but not lackluster at all; no, it seemed to shine from within with a pale glow that burned your eyes if you looked too long. His cheekbones were angled and sharp, his mouth full and pink. 

His eyes bore into her with an apathy that rivaled Lyanna's, their color beautiful and unsettling, dreamy indigo swirled with amethyst. All around his face tumbled locks of silver-gold hair, hair that tickled her collarbones as he bent forward to whisper, "Turn around."

She did so mindlessly, bowing her head as she bared her back to him. Long pale fingers reached around to her throat, fumbling with the clasp there and the comforting weight of her maiden's cloak suddenly disappeared from her shoulders. 

She felt naked and exposed without it and she fed into the urge that told her to run away, _run as fast as you can_. 

But before she could, another weight, heavier and hotter, was placed over her shoulders and those pale hands were at her throat again, securing the new velvet cloak to her body. 

She wanted to scream, but her mouth seemed wired shut. 

She turned to face Rhaegar again and a thin strip of white silk was placed over their joined hands. Together they spewed meaningless words after the septon, putting no feeling or emotion into the vows they echoed to one another. 

_These are not my gods_ , she reminded herself, _these words mean nothing to me. I have not vowed myself to him before a heart tree, therefore I am not truly married._

Even as she thought it, there was a decided lack of conviction; she was in a wedding dress with his dragon's cloak on her shoulders, her family minus Brandon watching as she bound herself to the prince in the Southron fashion. There was no undoing this. 

Unless...

Maggy's rasping voice suddenly filled her head. _"Your maidenhead will stay intact long after your wedding night, but you will birth children. Three to be exact."_

A dark triumph filled Lyanna's heart. She didn't know the prince well, but he didn't strike her as a rapist; and if he tried anything out of sort, she'd stab him with the fruit knife hidden in her bodice. If she could hold out from laying with him long enough, perhaps their marriage could be set aside. 

As for the three children... _well, that part is wrong_ , she decided. She'd become a septa before she ever gave the silver prince the pleasure of fucking her. 

"Kneel," the High Septon said to her gently. She went to her knees, the tail of her Targaryen cloak trailing behind her like a black river. The septon plucked something dark and shining from a pillow behind him and came forth to her. 

In his hands was a crown - a crown wrought in the shape of twisting vines pricked with thorns and accented with metal roses; the vines were made of black iron, the thorns ornamented with drops of diamonds fashioned after morning dew, and the roses were iron inlaid with chips of sparkling sapphires. 

Thorny winter roses made of gems on a circlet of black iron vines. The crown was pressed into her hair, banding around her forehead to the back of her head snugly. 

She stood, ignoring Rhaegar's offered hand. 

Their vows and her crowning finished, and his cloak on her shoulders, the High Septon urged them to seal their fresh marriage with a kiss. Rhaegar leaned forward and Lyanna stared right through him, angling her head away at just the right moment so he kissed just outside the corner of her mouth. 

She turned away before he could try again or scowl or _whatever else_ , and faced the applauding crowd. They were a sea of blurry faces, but four she could make out. 

Her father smiling gently at her, Ned and Benjen doing the same, although the latter two seemed decidedly more impressed by their surroundings. All three Stark men looked distinctly out of place, though, fish out of water, wolves in a dragon's nest. 

It was the fourth face that surprised her, the one she hadn't expected to see at all, maybe ever again. It was a handsome face, set into an anvil jaw, eyes blue and stormy like the seas he ruled, hair dark over his forehead. 

Robert Baratheon stared at her with an unsettling combination of lust, regret, and rage. He wanted her, that much she could tell, even as black velvet pooled over her shoulders and down her back. Robert's blue eyes left her, flicking angrily to her left. 

At her side, a hand whose blood ran with fire clasped hers.


	18. Steel and Weirwood

The blade was long, dangerously sharp, and seemed to have been folded in on itself half a thousand times until the Valyrian steel glinted red and orange in the light. The sword's pommel was shapen like a dragon's head, dark and ominous with two ruby eyes; the dragon's wings were wide and unfurled, set as the hilt, and its scales were alternating chips of onyx and garnet.

Balerion the Dread reborn in gems and steel.

"Thank you," he breathed to his father, who seemed overcome with a rare moment of normalcy. 

The wedding gifts from their guests had been taken to Rhaegar's solar as each party arrived in the time leading up to the wedding; presents had been waiting anywhere from weeks to mere hours, but Aerys and Rickard's gifts were to be bestowed upon the bride and groom at the wedding feast.

Aerys' gift to his son and the new princess was a tall Valyrian steel sword. "It needs a name," the king rasped. Down the table, Viserys bubbled with irritation at being kept away from the sword.

Rhaegar studied the blade, glancing at Lyanna to see her grey eyes wide in awe and appreciation; he wanted to pass it to her, to let her run her pale little hands over it, to marvel at its beauty. But to do that would risk Aerys' paranoia, his irritability, and Rhaegar had no want to provoke his father.

House Targaryen hadn't had an ancestral sword since Blackfyre, and Dark Sister before that. He swiveled the blade in hand again, watching the play of fiery red in the grey steel, steel as dark as his bride's eyes.

Lyanna's House had a greatsword, almost 400 years old, acquired by the Starks after it was forged in Valyria; it was named Ice, aptly so as it resided in the North.

Rhaegar smiled; it was poetic almost, that his bride's ancestor wielded a blade called Ice, and she was the ice to his fire, one half of his destiny, the woman with which he'd make children, the mother to his promised prince.

"Fire," he announced, allowing his voice to carry over the hall. The guests exploded in applause, lords and ladies and children alike fascinated by the new greatsword of House Targaryen.

 _'Ice' in the north_ , he thought wryly, _and 'Fire' in the south._

A servant came rushing forth as Rhaegar carefully set Fire in its long wooden box inlaid with a bed of velvet; the boy took the box from Rhaegar, and Rickard stepped away from his seat beside Lyanna at the dais and came around to the front.

A servant passed off something large and flat to him, covered in a draping of fur. Rickard carefully set his gift before Rhaegar and Lyanna, peeling away the fur as he stepped back.

It was a shield, almost as tall as Fire, and made of beautiful, smooth weirwood. The shield was edged in gorgeous glinting red-enameled steel, but the plane was what was so captivating.

Smooth and pale the weirwood was except for the face carved into the front of the shield, long and melancholy, the eyes seemed to judge and _see_ , even without pupils to watch. It was a face like the Children of the Forest had etched into the heart trees hundreds of years ago, its eyes even bleeding red sap somehow. It was a little piece of the godswood, of Winterfell, of the old gods to watch over his little Northern wife.

Lyanna grabbed her father around the neck and hugged him across the table. Northerners were not particularly known for their openness, for their generosity in emotion, which is why most of the hall seemed to watch in fascination as the noble and stoic Starks laughed with each other.

Rickard came back around the table to reclaim his seat once more beside Lyanna, and the shield was taken away to its rightful place next to Fire; Rhaegar hoped the sword and shield would be enough to protect them both from the fiery moods of his father.

Afterward, the food was brought out, some twenty-five courses of duck and deer and boar and vegetables and fruits and sweets. It took well over three hours to finish the meal, and with Dornish red and Arbor gold flowing freely, most of the guests were well and truly drunk by the time plates were cleared.

The musicians, who had up until that point been playing slow and soothing music, picked up the tempo and played bawdy songs that begged to be danced to. Benjen stole his sister immediately for a dance, and Rhaegar noticed how even the skeptical lords and ladies couldn't help but watch her.

Rhaegar certainly couldn't. In that stunning dress of gauzy, sweeping silk and with that crown on her head, he never wanted to look away.

It was something about her with the crown. Perhaps it was seeing all his hard weeks of idealism and work come to life, and with the woman of his prophecy donning it.

Aside from small council meetings, last minute wedding preparations, training with the Kingsguard, and receiving grievances, all Rhaegar did was work with the royal jeweler on her crown.

The jeweler, at first, had insisted on it being gold, _silver_ at the very least, the stuff of princesses and queens. But Rhaegar couldn't approve that.

Lyanna was beautiful of course, but he could see the iron underneath.

And thus he insisted on iron, _black_ iron forged in the shape of twisting vines blooming with winter roses, the sapphires of which brought out their likeness to the true flowers that grew in the North. Only at the end of the process had the jeweler suggested drops of diamonds fashioned like morning dew on the tips of the rose thorns.

And Lyanna looked absolutely captivating in it, from the moment the High Septon placed it on her head to now, with her dancing wildly with her brother.

Only a few feet away, at a place of higher honor than the other guests due to their relation to the royal family, were Robert and Stannis Baratheon. Stannis was scowling as per usual, the boy never having learned what it was to not be so _angry_ all the time; but Robert, who always seemed quick to laugh and even quicker to jape, was frowning deeper than his grumpy brother, his blue eyes set on Rhaegar's wife.

No doubt Robert was imagining a completely different scenario, one in which Lyanna was dancing in the circle of his strong, thickly-muscled arms, waiting to be taken to bed.

Rhaegar could have laughed, if it didn't perturb him so much. Lyanna and Robert hadn't known each other very long, and their betrothal hadn't even been officiated, barely more than an offer of a hand. What was it about her that entranced the Stormlord so?

Rhaegar had his own reasons for wanting the girl now. She was beautiful, sure, and had a famous name, but she was his ice, his winter princess.

For what reason did Robert Baratheon pout?

Rhaegar stood from his place and walked out onto the floor, ignoring the pleading looks from the many noble ladies that waited for partners. Instead he strode to Lyanna, who was currently in the arms of Ned Stark, and politely asked to cut in.

Lyanna's smile seemed to die, like snow on fire, when Rhaegar took her into his arms. "Are you having a good time?"

Lyanna made a noise in the back of her throat. "I was until you interrupted my dance with my brother."

Rhaegar almost smiled, taken back to the swift days of Harrenhal when a quick bite was always on the tip of her tongue. "I apologize for that, Princess."

She stiffened at the title, but made no comment, no move to further the conversation. Rhaegar thought of her gift waiting in the stables.

"I have a present for you," he said.

She leaned back from his close embrace, looking up into his eyes. "You already gave me a present," she said, tipping her head so that the sapphires in her crown glinted.

"Yes," he agreed, "but I have something else for you. Something I believe you will enjoy more."

Lyanna was not the sort of lady ensnared with jewels and finery, and although a princess required a crown, he knew that Lyanna was indifferent about hers. His other gift, however, he believed she would love; or at least, he hoped she would.

"When do I get it?" She asked hesitantly, almost as if she believed he was lying.

"Before the bedding," he said, and she stilled instantly.

This was where Rhaegar knew things would get murky. She hadn't even allowed him to kiss her on the mouth in the Sept of Baelor after the union, and she was awkward in his arms; there was no doubt in his mind that the only "laying" he'd be doing tonight was with the cold sheets of his own bed.

And while that might have usually sent a rush of frustration in his veins, or at the very least urgency to fulfill the prophecy, he'd already been given inadvertent assurances that _she_ was the right person to complete the other half of his prophecy. He didn't mind waiting because he knew Lyanna was the fabled "ice."

He had obsessively went over every word Lyanna had repeated of this _Maggy_ that night on the road, had exchanged half a dozen letters with Aemon at the Wall, discussing the words of Maggy and comparing them to what they knew of the prophecy. It all came together, like a beautiful painting that finally revealed its picture.

One day Lyanna would come around, and they would have their three children, and that was enough for Rhaegar.

A sharp clap stopped the music and Rhaegar turned to see his father on his feet, glaring over the sea of guests. "It is time for the bedding!"

Where Southern tradition usually dictated the bride and groom be stripped and carried off by the guests to the marriage bed, royal weddings were different. It was unseemly for lords and ladies to see their royals in states of undress, therefore another tradition was instilled.

Instead, the prince and princess, or king and queen, were escorted by four of the Kingsguard to Maegor's Holdfast, where one knight was left outside the doors to stand witness to the consummation.

Sers Arthur, Oswell, Jaime, and Lewyn were chosen for the duty that night; they came forth, Arthur and Oswell flanking Rhaegar's left and Jaime and Lewyn flanking Lyanna's right as they were ushered out of the hall, their exit paraded by a rumble of cheers and claps from the guests.

However, instead of going to his chambers in the Holdfast, he walked the group through the castle toward the stableyard where Lyanna's present waited. She was looking nowhere in particular, her eyes wide yet unseeing, and therefore did not ask questions until she started, recognizing the smell of hay and horses.

His squire, a new boy named Richard Lonmouth, came forth with Lyanna's gift. It was a great Sand Steed from Dorne, its coat a beautiful blue-grey color that gleamed like steel even in the evening light.

Its mane, the same beautiful grey, was wavy and woven with bright blue winter roses that Rickard Stark had brought south with him at Rhaegar's insistence.

Lyanna stopped, lips parting in awe as she stared at the nickering horse. Rhaegar leaned over, murmured against her ear, "Your gift, Princess."

She hesitantly walked forward, as if she was in a dream, and smoothed a hand over the horse's neck. "Beautiful," she whispered, words lost in the strong breeze that blew after the long day of harsh rain.

"It needs a name," Rhaegar pointed out, enjoying the play of the smile on her lips.

"Smoke," she said immediately, tilting her head in affection as she rubbed at her horse's jaw.

"Good name," Rhaegar said. He allowed her a few more minutes to pet Smoke before he spoke again. "Lyanna."

She jerked her head toward him, seeming almost surprised that he was still there.

"Ser Jaime and Ser Lewyn will take you to the Holdfast now."

She clenched her jaw and anger seemed to flood her vision. Her eyes twitched to narrow at him, and she ran her tongue over her teeth like a predator, but she jerked her head in a nod. Her legs carried her quickly away, Jaime and Lewyn quickly following behind her.

When she was out of sight, Rhaegar sighed deeply. "She will make this marriage difficult," he said aloud to Arthur and Oswell. If there was anything he knew about Lyanna Stark in their short time of acquaintance, it was that she was stubborn and only did what she wanted. And right now, she did not want Rhaegar. He wondered why the gods were so cruel to make her one-half to the most important prophecy of time then, when her choices were dictated by the moods that seemed as cold as Winterfell and hot as the long-dead Balerion's flames.

"Yes," Arthur agreed, "she will."

 _Then why_ , he wondered, _why does she have to be my 'ice'?_


	19. The Marriage Chambers

_The only difference between me and a prisoner_ , Lyanna thought, _is that they do not lead me by chains._

For all the noise they made, Sers Jaime and Lewyn could have been the ghosts of King's Landing. When they marched her toward Maegor's Holdfast, they did so looking straight ahead with emotionless countenances, ever the dragon's soldiers in their clinking white armor. 

She eyed their backs, wondering if she slipped away quietly, how far she could make it before they noticed. They were Kingsguards of course, but she was quick, had grown up outfoxing her brothers through the twists and turns of Winterfell. 

What were two Southron Knights to a slew of Northmen, to a Stark?

The only thing that kept her following, that kept her from bolting was the potential embarrassment at being found wandering the confusion of the Red Keep, at being caught and dragged back to Rhaegar's chambers to be bedded. 

Lost in her thoughts, Lyanna stopped mere inches from ramming into Ser Jaime's back. Ser Lewyn, the dark-skinned Dornish prince, had one arm bracing a large oak and iron door open. 

Lyanna stood firmly in place, rooting her feet to the floor. Her eyes flicked wildly to the open doorway and then between the two Kingsguards. 

"In you go, Princess," Ser Lewyn said in a flaring accent. 

Her heart soared into her throat as she turned to look where they had come from. It was a long hallway and she was sure she could outrace them down the length of it, but could she find her way out, to her family?

"Please don't," Lewyn said suddenly, softly, "I've no wish to drag you back here."

Tears flooded her vision and she was too scared to feel embarrassed at having been read so easily. Instead she silently walked through the open door, flinching when it shut behind her. 

For all her bravado as a Stark, as the brave she-wolf who'd stab the dragon to save her hide, all Lyanna Stark felt was the purest anxiety boiling inside her. 

She'd threatened Rhaegar before and with a sword of all things, before Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell. But that was in a godswood, where _her_ gods held sway and would have lent her strength where needed. 

The Targaryens didn't answer to gods, therefore she would find no help in faith within these castle walls. 

She realized suddenly that she was in Rhaegar's room and she took the private moment to distract herself by admiring it. 

It was large and airy, simple in its grandeur but no less nice. Dark tapestries hung from the walls, woven with motifs of fire-breathing dragons and melting cityscapes. A huge canopy bed was pushed against one wall, covered in black silk coverlings, its canopy falling from the ceiling like limp dragon wings. 

Straight across from the door, set into the smooth stone of the wall, was a deep alcove, its entrance granted privacy by a thin, swaying curtain of gauzy red silk. 

Curiously, Lyanna drifted over, fingers pulling back the curtain. Set into the cozy alcove was a marble bathing pool, chipped with lapis lazuli and gold. It was bone dry, and the sight of it stole the moisture from Lyanna's throat. 

She tore away from the bathing alcove quickly, as if fire struck her skin. She needed to stop pissing off, and actually get her ass into motion; Lyanna wanted to be out of her wedding gown and into something less appealing when he finally came, breeches from Rhaegar's dressers perhaps. 

She hastily tore the crown from her head, gracelessly tossing it on the end of Rhaegar's bed where it landed silently in the silks. Then she began to rip the pins from her head, throwing them to the ground before uncoiling her bun and unraveling the braids with a wild sense of urgency that burned through her quicker than wildfire. 

Her Targaryen cloak joined the crown on the bed, the length of black velvet and shimmering rubies landing in a soft heap. 

She was just attempting to unsuccessfully untie the laces of her corset when the door opened and Rhaegar ghosted inside, pausing when he caught her struggling wildly against her wedding gown. 

"Hello," he said, confusion evident in his tone. In the brace of his hands was a simple wooden box, its lid open to reveal a bed of dark blue velvet. 

Lyanna allowed her arms to fall at her sides, taut as a loaded crossbow when he began to approach her. Fingers twitching for the fruit blade tied into her bodice and the confidence to wield it, she was surprised when he reached past her to carefully pick up the jeweled iron crown on his bed. 

He deposited it gently inside the box and strode toward the nightstand to set the box down. He half-turned back to her, purple eyes falling down her form. 

"Would you care for wine, Princess?"

Her heart thudded oddly. "No."

Rhaegar nodded. He went to grab her cloak and shook it out before folding it neatly and bringing it to sit beside her boxed crown. 

With his back to her, he began to shed his doublet, the belt at his waist, and then the black tunic he'd worn underneath it all. His skin was lovely silver in the combination of evening and firelight, and she was surprised to see a few red scars lining his shoulder blades and spine. 

She tugged her lip between her teeth, studying the scars when he suddenly turned around. Her eyes widened; his chest was hard, but his waist was lean and ridged with sleek muscle. He had a warrior's body. 

"What are you doing?" The words left her mouth before she could stop them, and she found herself searching his blank face for any clue of longing or desire. Both of which she found none. 

"Getting ready for bed," he answered simply. 

True to form, she couldn't help but crassly blurt, "I'm not going to fuck you." She clenched her fists to keep the strength to her face, but the words had curdled her stomach. 

His brows knitted together in mild disgust as he shoved off his boots and raked a handful of silver hair from his face. "I wasn't planning on _fucking_ you, Lyanna."

"We aren't going to have sex?"

At that his eyes flashed up, twin amethysts glinting. "Not unless you wish it. Which judging by that poor excuse of a kiss in the sept, I doubt you do."

Relief flooded her, but beyond that she was skeptical. "A prince needs heirs."

Rhaegar hummed in his throat, peeling back the silk coverlings on his bed. "Yes," he said, climbing in, "but this prince will not rape his wife to get them."

She almost felt the need to insist again, before she stopped herself. What was she thinking, she was getting her way! She wasn't going to be made to open her legs for this stranger, wouldn't be forced to swell her belly with his seed. 

If anything, he was assisting her plans to have their marriage one day set aside. The Mad King would eventually find another girl for his son to mount, and she'd be free to live her remaining days within the walls of Winterfell. Everything was coming together perfectly. 

A rasping voice scratched at her thoughts. _"And you will only ever go home to Winterfell once more in your life."_

It was Maggy's voice, grinding like rocks, harsh and insistent in her mind. No, the woman may have known she'd marry Rhaegar and that her maidenhead would stay intact on her wedding night, but everything else she'd been wrong about. Lyanna would be sure of it. 

Rhaegar turned on his stomach in the bed, pressing his face into the pillows that lay there. She sighed and once more attempted to wrangle apart the laces of her corset, but for all her efforts, all she could manage was to grow a hotter dislike for Southron handmaidens. 

Sensing there was only one way out of her predicament without resorting to sleeping in the bulk of silk and chiffon, she shuffled over to the right side of the bed, tapping a finger against Rhaegar's smooth shoulder. 

He lifted his head from the pillow, tired eyes shifting to her. "Yes?"

She clenched her jaw before answering, "I can't get out of my dress."

Something lightened his face then, a fatigued sort of amusement, as he pushed up and sat on the edge of the bed. With featherlight fingers, he turned her around and began plucking at the ties of her corset like they were harp strings. 

The corset sagged open and the dress fell from her body, leaving her naked back and smallclothes exposed to him. She went to grab for her dress to shield her body when something soft and _absolutely divine_ -smelling fell over her head and shoulders. 

"Arms up," Rhaegar said softly. She complied, and he pulled the shirt over her arms and down her torso. 

When she looked down, she almost smiled. It was Rhaegar's black tunic, the one he'd been wearing all day, the tunic that had been wrapped in his scent from sun up to sun down. 

The shirt hung to the middle of her thighs, enough to cover her smallclothes, and she stepped out of the silk puddle on the floor that was her wedding dress. 

She pulled the long sleeves of the tunic taut so that she could fist the material in her hands. "Thank you," she muttered softly, affording him a quick glance. 

"You're welcome," he said back, taking in her image as she came around to the left side of the bed. She peeled back the silk, and climbed in, utterly surrounded by Rhaegar's scent, something so _amazing_ that she could hardly resist pressing her face into the pillows and breathing deeply. 

Together in the bed, though, they were surrounded by a deep, horribly uncomfortable silence. She lay in his sheets, taut as a strung bow, waiting for something awful to happen, waiting for him to outgrow his patience and take her violently. 

Robert Baratheon would have had her clothes torn off and his cock deep inside her before she'd had time to take her hair down. The image of her small body pinned beneath the Stormlord's bulging muscles made her skin crawl. Rhaegar was no lustful stag, but a mighty dragon.

As the minutes crept on, and the headache in her temples grew to a startling pain, she finally flipped over, tired of the anxiety rushing through her. 

But Rhaegar was fully asleep, his lovely face eased and content, full mouth parted. She watched him, propping herself up on one elbow as he breathed deeply, in and out and in and out. Lyanna found that he was utterly endearing in his vulnerable state. 

There was something about him that was just so _interesting_ to look at. Perhaps it was his coloring, those Valyrian looks; but no, that couldn't be it, because King Aerys was silver-haired and purple-eyed and she could hardly bear to look at _him_. 

It was something in the shape of Rhaegar's face perhaps, the fine bones and slant of his structure, the fullness of his mouth that bordered on the obscene if you looked too long. At the very least she could say that she had a beautiful husband. 

For however long she would have him before she got their marriage annulled.

She hesitantly reached one hand out to trace the sharp curve of his jaw, jumping when his hand shot out to grasp it. Lyanna's eyes flashed up, expecting to see him awake, but he was still asleep, breathing contentedly and holding her hand in his. 

As gently as she could, she pulled away from his grasp and settled back into the pillows. His scent wafted over her and her mind began to drift, wondering how many girls had graced these sheets before her. 

Not as many as Robert Baratheon probably; that man was legendary in his renown for shooting his seed in between whatever pair of legs were open to him. Somehow Rhaegar didn't strike her as the type to bed down with whores, to frequent brothels.

Mind drifting, she curled onto her stomach, pressing her nose into the pillow and wishing she could sneak out of the Holdfast and grab her new horse, Smoke, and ride for the North. She willed herself to relax, to forget where she was and remember the pretty grey sheen of Smoke, the winter roses braided in its mane.

It was only hours later that she was able to fall into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning in the dark sheen of Rhaegar's bed, his room stifling hot from the crackle and pop of the bright flames in his fireplace. 

Rhaegar rested deeply through the night beside her, silent and deadly, a lovely, sleeping dragon while she dreamt that she was a wolf racing through the godswood of Winterfell, the taste of dragonblood on her fangs. 


	20. Secrets of the Greats

The knock at her chamber doors was as ominous as rolling thunderclouds over the sea; Lyanna sat up in her bed, glazed morning light streaming in through the Maidenvault's windows. She cleared her throat, breathed deeply, and called, "Come in!"

Lyanna's little riverland lady-in-waiting, Johanna Mallister, waltzed in, a sunshine smile on her freckled face. 

The girl, a pretty flower at seventeen years old, was sent from House Mallister after Lyanna's wedding to service and accompany the new princess; House Mallister was sworn to House Tully - Hoster Tully, the high lord and father of Brandon's betrothed, Catelyn, had introduced the girl to Lyanna personally. 

Lyanna liked Johanna well enough, but the girl was constantly smiling and singing, attempting to bring life to the dreary Maidenvault that Lyanna was a permanent figure of.

After their wedding, Rhaegar had offered Lyanna apartments within Maegor's Holdfast, only a corridor away from his own, but she steadfastly refused. She liked the Maidenvault, the grey tint that seemed to soak the walls so that if she squinted her eyes, she could pretend she was back at Winterfell - but most of all, she liked being away from the presence of the Mad King.

"Up, up!" Johanna insisted, tugging at Lyanna's blanket.

She huffed but sat up, groaning when Johanna lay a bright blue silk dress over the bed. "Johanna, I don't require a dress today. I'll be riding Smoke."

"I'm afraid not, Your Highness. The queen has requested your presence for the midday meal."

Lyanna's heart stuttered. "Just the queen?"

Johanna gave Lyanna a queer look, roving her keen green eyes all over the princess. "The prince will be there as well." Lyanna closed her eyes in defeat. "Viserys," Johanna clarified.

Lyanna's eyes shot open, relief replacing the dread that was heavy in her throat. Of all the royals, she liked Queen Rhaella the best; Rhaella was kind and lovely, with always a sweet word, and Viserys was a storm of energy, curious and blunt.

Johanna assisted Lyanna into the dress, lacing up the ties at her back with speedy fingers. Once her hair was braided down her back, they left the Maidenvault and were met with Ser Jonothor Darry, one of the seven Kingsguards.

Ser Jonothor was one of the few that she disliked; he was a stern man with an empty face and scraggly brown hair that looked perpetually unwashed. 

Without a word, he walked off, and Lyanna was forced to run after him, his long legs a barely even match to her quickness. It had been a month since her wedding to Rhaegar and in that time, she hadn't been back to the castle-within-a-castle that was the Holdfast.

But the sight of those stone-walled corridors bleached tan in the daylight was enough to cause a shift in her stomach as she remembered being marched inside by Ser Jaime and Ser Lewyn. 

Queen Rhaella's apartments were far off from Rhaegar's, set into a secluded little corner that seemed darker than the rest of the castle. The sight of her dark, cold rooms sent an eery chill through Lyanna's bones.

The queen was sitting at her small table below the window, her face settled on a screeching Viserys. Lyanna flinched, unused to the volume of the little prince.

"Lyanna!" Rhaella said brightly, standing to greet her with an embrace.

Lyanna allowed herself to be held, relishing in the spice of Rhaella's scent. She wondered if this is what it felt like to have a mother, that wonderful contentment that seemed to flood her system whenever Rhaella was around.

"Your Grace," Lyanna said back, still unused to using the queen's name so casually.

"Lya!" Viserys screamed, darting at Lyanna's legs with a startling speed. "Play with me!" He begged her, large purple eyes imploring her.

"After we eat," Rhaella said softly, bending down to scoop him up.

Viserys pouted, making grabbing-hands at Lyanna. She felt herself smile, a rare bloom of happiness unfurling in her heart. Lyanna took Viserys in her arms, muscles straining beneath his growing weight, and went to take the seat across the table from where Rhaella sat.

As soon as she was sat and still, though, Viserys squirmed and crawled away, preoccupied once more by the toys that scattered the floor. A servant immediately brought forth trays of fruits and small cakes, with a pitcher of watered-wine and lovely glass cups.

"How are you today, my dear?" Rhaella asked as Lyanna bit into a lemon cake.

"Well," Lyanna replied, distracted by Viserys' screeching as he pretended to be a dragon soaring over kingdoms.

Rhaella followed Lyanna's line of vision, smiling gently at her son. "Children are life's greatest joy," she informed her softly, lovingly. "There is nothing else that will bring you more happiness." 

A dark shadow seemed to pass over the queen's face before it was once more replaced by light. "You will see though one day, when you and my son have your own family together."

Heat crawled over Lyanna's cheeks and she ducked her head to hide the evidence of discomfort. She'd not been alone with Rhaegar since their wedding night only a month before, let alone his chambers. He was always off doing something - receiving grievances in lieu of his father, attending meetings of the small council, writing to this lord and that one.

It was all well and fine with Lyanna, lending credence to her plan to remain a virgin and eventually have their marriage annulled. But as she sat with Queen Rhaella, basking in her gentle warmth, Lyanna couldn't bear to think ill of Rhaegar.

Rhaella continued, "Hopefully the gods will bless you with girls and boys both. I had a girl, several years after Rhaegar's birth. She died though, my sweet thing." The queen sighed and Lyanna frowned. "I pray that you never know the pain of seeing your child dead before it lived."

Something tight coiled around Lyanna's heart, squeezing until she felt an immense sadness for the pretty Targaryen queen. She studied her, the silver hair and sad purple eyes so like her son's, and wondered whether the queen had ever known true happiness.

She imagined not, being forced to marry your brother, a man so vile it was all Lyanna could do not to fold in on herself in his presence.

They ate in relative silence after that, content to eat and laugh as Viserys shot imaginary flames out of his mouth, conquering cities across the world. When they were done, Rhaella walked Lyanna to the door, pretending that Ser Jonothor wasn't standing there in his clean white armor.

"Thank you, sweet girl, for spending time with us today."

Lyanna smiled. "Thank you for inviting me."

"Lya!" Viserys screamed, a small, silver version of Benjen's own childish excitement. "Will you come play with me later?"

Lyanna chuckled, reaching down to smooth her palm over his feathery silver hair. "Tomorrow perhaps."

That seemed to placate the young prince for he grinned mischievously and ran away once more. Rhaella hugged Lyanna again and then Ser Jonothor was directing her out of the Holdfast, leaving her at the door that led to the rest of the castle.

Alone, she let out a breath that was full of relief. She was always anxious when she was within close distance of the king or Rhaegar's chambers, and it wasn't until she was a distance away did she feel safe.

Instead of going back to the Maidenvault where Johanna was surely waiting with Lyanna's other ladies, Lyanna decided to explore the quiet recesses of the castle where souls barely ventured. She allowed herself to run her hands over the walls, her feet guiding her blindly through the twists and turns of the Keep.

It wasn't until she reached a dark, dank cellar did she realize that she was utterly and completely lost. Lyanna whirled around, searching for any sign that could tell her where she was in the castle, but all that met her was stone and the hallway from which she'd come.

She stood still, listening for any pursuit of guards or ladies, but it was silent in this part of the Keep, blissfully free of any annoyances. Smiling, Lyanna snatched a torch from the wall and delved deeper into the cellar, hungry for adventure after weeks of boredom.

She'd barely seen Smoke, her new horse; except for the few times she'd tolerated the required retinue of guards that followed her on her rides, Lyanna mainly stayed in the Maidenvault, rotting from sheer ennui. 

Johanna and her other ladies-in-waiting were always there, suggesting needlework or gossip, but even that Lyanna couldn't bear. She'd grown up a Stark, and a Stark with only a father, three brothers, and a castle of northerners to keep her company.

Needlework was not her idea of fun.

She walked for a long time through the dark grey of the hall that reached off the cellar, her eyes beginning to adjust to the shadows and such that loomed ahead. But as she continued, the darkness that shrouded her was so deep that it seemed light could not foster. Even her torch barely burned, a small trickle of flame that did her no favors.

Lyanna had just kicked away a shard of wood, the stone floor having turned to dirt and timber, when she heard voices. She swallowed a gasp and flattened herself against the wall, hurriedly blowing away the little flame of her torch. The darkness without her light was so black that she could not even see her hand in front of her.

The voices came closer and Lyanna knelt to the ground, crouching to make herself as small as possible.

"The dragon is frail," a deep voice said, the sound of a shoe scuffing the ground following his words.

"Yes," another voice agreed, soft and effeminate, "however a dragon with a clipped wing is still a mighty beast."

"Not," the deep voice said, "indestructable though."

Lyanna's heart hammered into her throat, so hard and loud she was scared the two men might hear it and discover her. They were obviously discussing the Targaryens, and though not outwardly menacing, their tones left her blood feeling cold.

"He must be put down. The blood is tainted and far past the point of return."

The soft voice said, "My birds tell me the Dragon Prince plans in secret."

The deep voice replied, "I would keep the dragons on the throne, but there is unrest in the Seven Kingdoms. The wolf allies with the trout and the falcon."

Lyanna squeezed her eyes shut. The wolf was her House, no doubt referring to her father. House Tully's sigil was a silver trout and House Arryn's a sky-blue falcon; Catelyn was marrying Brandon, and Jon Arryn was a close friend of her family's ever since Ned was fostered in the Eyrie. What was wrong with her father making connections with other Great Houses?

"The stag was to marry into the House of the North, but the she-wolf was stolen away before their union could be solidified," the soft voice murmured, sounding frighteningly near. "Stags do not take insult lightly."

Lyanna's fingers curled into the dirt, the muck of the floor getting all over her silk dress. But she didn't care. She wanted to run away, but to do so would give away her presence, and that could mean her death.

These two men were talking of the alliances of her House, and Robert Baratheon's anger at Lyanna having married Rhaegar. She didn't know who the two voices were, but whomever they were, they seemed to hold power and secrets.

Thankfully when the deep voice spoke again, he sounded farther away and Lyanna could breathe. "If we cannot put the dragon down, we'll have to accept..." And then they were walking away, words dying from the distance.

Lyanna waited in the dark, kneeling in the dirt and timber, until her heart slowed and she was sure that the men were far enough away that they wouldn't hear her move.

Blind and lost, she stood and pushed her shoulder against the wall for leverage as she went deeper through the black tunnel. Lyanna felt as if she had walked for miles when a rank smell suddenly hit her nose, an odor so pungent that it was all she could do not to retch right there. Ahead, the darkness seemed to lighten the slightest bit.

Something cold and wet washed against her feet, instantly wetting the bottom ten inches of her dress. The filthy water lapped at her as she pulled up the hem of her skirts, baring her legs. She continued through the muck until the circle of light ahead brightened enough so that she could see she was in the sewer.

Lip curled, she pulled her dress higher, determined to keep most of it dry. Eventually the sewer led out into a river and Lyanna took the opportunity to kick her legs through the water, cleaning the sewer filth off her skin.

When she emerged from the tunnel, free from the clutches of the sewers, Lyanna looked up, shocked. The Red Keep sat on Aegon's Hill, miles away.


	21. What Lies At the Bottom

Making her way through Flea Bottom, the slums of King's Landing, was far easier than Lyanna would have guessed; clad in a dress patched with dungeon dirt and soggy with brown water from the sewers and river, her hair messy and falling out of its braid, Lyanna looked like just another poor beggar girl. 

No one would expect Rhaegar Targaryen's little wife to be moseying around the worst part of King's Landing in dirty, waterlogged silks. 

While that particular thought would have horrified any other noblewoman, let alone a princess, Lyanna found herself smiling. People didn't watch her here so much like those in the Red Keep, except for the grimy men whose eyes were on the curve of her backside as she made her way through the winding streets. 

The only thing that could have made her day better was if she had Smoke, and Benjen was back with her. 

Flea Bottom was the poorest area of the capital and she had no hard time believing it. Even away from the sewers, the air was permeated with the liquid stench of feces, brown sludge caked on the ground. 

The unpaved streets twisted all the way up to Rhaenys' Hill, heavily laden with the dirty and downtrodden. Pot-shops were featured down every alley, stringy women and little children calling out, "Bowls o' brown! Come and get it!"

Lyanna wondered what the "brown" was. 

On either side of the streets were tall, poorly-made buildings that hunched so badly, the roofs almost touched; she was tempted to climb to the top of one and see if she could touch across the way. 

It was with her face upturned, squinting against the sun when she heard a voice sneer in her ear, "You're a pretty one." 

She whipped around to find a gaunt man with a shock of grey-and-brown hair, his mouth crowded with yellowed, crooked teeth. His eyes were hungry with lust.

Lyanna flinched back but the hold he had on her arm was surprisingly strong. "Get off!"

The man smiled. "Never. You're a true catch. Come on, let's get that dress off'ya."

Lyanna's eyes slid past his grip on her arm, over his shoulder where a man as big as Ser Arthur and Oswell combined stood eating a chicken leg happily, obliviously. A plan formed in her mind.

"That's my husband," she said, "and he'll kill you for touching me." 

Her distraction worked and as the small man looked over his shoulder to her "husband", she yanked her arm free and ran off, zig-zagging her way through buildings and streets to throw off her trail. 

Lyanna ran fast and hard, heart pumping furiously - half in fear, half in anxious excitement. She was free of the Keep, exploring the dregs of the capital and holding her own against leering lusters. She hadn't done anything so reckless since donning steel at Harrenhal's tourney. 

When she finally chanced a look back, all she saw were slow-walking peasants minding their own business, not at all concerned about the speeding girl in the stained blue dress. Seemingly safe, rushed with adrenaline, Lyanna grinned and allowed her eyes to wander once more to take in her surroundings. 

Small, dirty children were darting in and between carts, barefoot and barreling into strangers without so much as a greeting or apology. Their glee filled the air like a hundred songbirds.

Lyanna was suddenly reminded of her arrival into King's Landing with Rhaegar, Arthur, and Oswell, greeted by the populace's slums. She recalled the way a few had waved to her, eyes curious, while others seemed disinterested or distrustful. 

A group of kids were running past Lyanna, screaming, when suddenly the smallest one of the bunch fell down, slamming her face into the street. 

Lyanna stopped, hurrying over to help the little girl even as her friends bolted off. "Hey, are you alright?"

The little girl looked up, eyes such a clear blue that it was startling against the brown film of grime that stained her skin. Frightened, she nodded. 

Lyanna helped lift the girl up, looking over the scrape on her cheek that was already beginning to well fresh blood. "You're hurt," she murmured. She went to touch her cheek but thought better of it, lest the girl start screaming bloody murder at a stranger's touch. "You'll live though."

"I'm tough!" The girl announced proudly, smiling with eight jagged teeth. "Beth says so!" 

Lyanna couldn't help but chuckle. "You are," she agreed. "Is Beth one of your friends that ran off?"

The girl's brows knitted together in confusion. "No."

When Lyanna sensed the girl would not expound, she asked, "Where are your parents?"

At that question, the girl's eyes dimmed. "My mama died of fever and my pa didn't want me no more."

Lyanna immediately regretted asking, hot shame filling her so fiercely, her cheeks reddened with the heat of a dozen suns. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." The little girl was staring up at Lyanna like she was some hero though, eyes wide and bedazzled. "Where do you live then?" 

"The orphanage on Eel Alley!"

Lyanna sighed, rubbing a comforting hand over the curve of the girl's shoulder before helping her up. "What's your name, little one?"

The girl smiled a small smile, eyes sparkling. "Kyra."

Lyanna grinned back. "Pleased to meet you, Lady Kyra. I'm Lyanna." Kyra giggled, obviously pleased at being called 'lady'. "Can I help you get home now?"

Kyra nodded quickly, smeared some blood across her cheek with the back of one hand, and with the other, grasped Lyanna's. Kyra tugged Lyanna through the maze of Flea Bottom, smiling as if she had no problems in the world. 

Lyanna thought that perhaps it was too easy to get Kyra's trust, glad that it was her who helped the small girl rather than some man with eyes for youth. 

Up the hill, they passed more pot-shops as well as tanner's sheds, taverns, and several whorehouses, though the business at those was scarce as it was midday. 

Eventually they came to a decrepit stone building, nondescript and crumbling horribly. "In here," Kyra urged but held on to Lyanna's hand, pulling her through the entryway. 

Many, many children were milling about inside, the air peaked with screams and squeals and laughter and crying. A team of women were doing their best to comfort everyone who needed them, but it was clear they were undermanned. 

And judging by the children's skeletal bodies, undernourished as well. 

Kyra took Lyanna to a red-haired woman, large in the belly but thin in the face; she must have been seven or eight months pregnant. 

"What happened to you, child? Is that blood?!" The woman finally seemed to notice Kyra attached to Lyanna. "And who are you?" She demanded, a substitute mother cub protecting her young. 

"Lyanna!" Kyra answered happily, suddenly distracted by a loaf of bread being passed around. 

The girl darted off, but the woman stared at Lyanna, brown eyes trailing over her face and clothes. "What are you doing with Kyra?"

"I saw her fall on the street, so I offered to help her home."

The woman seemed deeply suspicious, studying Lyanna in a way that made her skin itch. After a long moment, the stranger's eyes widened, then narrowed. "You look familiar. Where are you from, m'lady?"

Lyanna gulped. "North."

The woman finally looked scared. Her cheeks were red, matching the shade of her bright hair. "Are you... _Princess_ Lyanna?"

Lyanna's brows raised in surprise. Never in a thousand years did she expect anyone outside of the Red Keep to know who she was, let alone some woman who ran an orphanage in the slums of the capital. 

"I saw you on the day you came to the city," the woman hurried to say, "riding with those Kingsguards and the young dragon. You're Prince Rhaegar's wife."

Lyanna sighed, caught. She wondered if the woman would tell on her, if she'd run and find a Gold Cloak who'd drag Lyanna back to the castle with her tail between her legs. 

"I am married to the prince, yes."

The woman suddenly dropped to her knee, mindful of the stack of linens in her arms. "Forgive me for my rudeness earlier, Your Highness. If I had known- I would never have-"

Lyanna stopped the woman's stuttering, touching a hand to her elbow. "Stand up please. I don't blame you for not knowing who I was. My dress is filthy and my hair is a mess."

The woman smiled, the sight softening her features. "You are stunning," she said instead of commenting on Lyanna's current state of messiness. "Too stunning for the likes of this place. I am Beth, Your Highness."

"Thank you very much, but please, call me Lyanna."

Beth's brown eyes widened in shock. "No, I couldn't-"

"You can and you will," Lyanna asserted. Then she looked around the room, frowning at the state of the place. "How many children do you have here?"

Beth glanced around. "A little more than a hundred," she admitted, "and getting more every day."

Lyanna's lips parted in disbelief. More than a hundred children and caretakers in that little crumbling building. The bony figures made a little more sense. 

"How many of you are here to watch over them?"

Beth smiled sadly. "Only twelve of us left now. We had fifteen, but they were caught stealing and were taken to the Keep for the king's justice."

Lyanna shivered violently. She knew what the king's justice meant. "No husbands?"

Beth said, "A few, but most of us are without men."

"How do you feed everyone then?" 

At that, Beth lowered her eyes. "We have our ways, Your Highness."

Lyanna cocked her head. She may not have been terribly grown, but she was sixteen and knew the bare minimum of what went on in those whorehouses dotting the kingdoms. 

Most she had learned from Brandon's proud exploits though she did her best to ignore what he boasted of. However, right in front of her, the proof was in Beth's round belly. 

"Well," Lyanna sighed, looking out at the mass of dirty children, "would you care for some help?"

Beth was quick to refuse. "This is no job for a princess! I would never dishonor you by allowing your assistance."

Lyanna figured as much. "I can visit with them then. Tell them stories, read occasionally. I don't have any coin on me now, but I can bring some back for you. Perhaps some food as well..."

Beth's eyes narrowed, caution weighing out over the excitement of coin and food. "You plan on coming back?"

Lyanna looked around the dirty room teeming with life and sound. It may not have been jousting in a tourney or secretly swinging swords with Benjen in the woods, but it was better than needlework in the Maidenvault. 

Lyanna turned her grin of excitement to Beth. "I do."


	22. Dinner for Two

Getting back into the Red Keep was infinitely more difficult than getting out had been. By the time she had left Beth's, the afternoon sky had morphed into a lovely blend of red and gold, the sun dying on the horizon.

Lyanna scrambled her way back to the sewers, thanks to a personal escort from Beth. She'd briefly entertained just going up to Aegon's Hill, demanding to be let in through one of the gates, but that would breed questions and she didn't want those.

With a deep breath, she splashed back into the river water, her legs and dress soaked through once more. If anything, the sewers were even more rancid by night and she physically had to hold her breath as she attempted to navigate back into the castle.

Eventually, the water ended, the floor turning to the dirt where Lyanna had overheard the two men talking. She was without a torch, and eveningfall had only made everything so much darker.

She was forced to use her hands, feeling along the walls and floors, tripping several dozen times. Lyanna tried to calm her racing heart, pretending this was only another game with Benjen.

Yes, that was it. Benjen had blindfolded her and now she had to find him. This was hide and seek. She was safe in Winterfell, playing with her brother.

It felt like days that she was thrusted into darkness, blind and feeling her way through secret corridors. A few times she had to stop, frustrated tears welling up in her eyes before she took another deep breath and continued on.

 _I will not get stuck down here_ , she asserted to herself.

When the dirt floors eventually turned to dressed stone, and torchlight spilled from the entrance to the cellar where it all led from, Lyanna almost kissed the ground in thanks. She was sure it was far past dinner time.

With a spark of horror, she wondered if people had come looking for her while she was out. What if the entire castle was up in arms because she wasn't where she was supposed to be? She could just imagine having to be dragged before the prince and king to explain her whereabouts. But when she stepped foot into the castle, only the dust motes were there to greet her.

The halls were conspicuously empty, her footfalls echoing off the stone like the roar of a wolfpack. The torches that were sconced along each corner and plane threw ghostly shadows across the floor, black ghosts that were ten feet tall and ominous.

Lyanna's chest tingled with anxiety; something was off.

She'd never seen the castle so empty in her time there; there were always Kingsguards, knights garbed in red and black, squires and grooms, maidservants, and royals. On her way to the Maidenvault, she saw not a one.

The fire and shadows were her only companions; what a Targaryen she made.

She tried to feel grateful that the gods granted her easy passage back to her rooms, but the well of gratitude was overshadowed by the part of her brain that told her something wasn't right.

Still, she slipped into her room and immediately stripped off her dress, balling it into a bundle before shoving it beneath her bed. She'd take care of it later, burn it perhaps or just stuff it into a bath to wash away the grime. For now, it would stay hidden.

A handmaiden appeared soon after her arrival, her small face set into a mask of utter shock. The girl looked like she had been through the seven hells and back again. 

"Are you alright?" Lyanna asked softly. 

The handmaiden jumped as if Lyanna had screamed. Her eyes were wide and full of terror. "Princess, would you care for anything? Food, a bath...?"

Confused by the girl's state, but reeking of the city, Lyanna said, "A bath would be great, thank you."

The handmaiden nodded and flitted away to fetch water and a tub. It took a team of women an hour to get the copper tub hauled inside and then the warm water poured in after. Lyanna thought to reward them somehow for their help; it may have been their job but she was grateful all the same.

She soaked in the tub until her fingers wrinkled and the water turned as murky as the sewers. Afterward, she pulled on a thin robe, its fabric clinging to the wet patches on her body. A knock sounded out, and Lyanna drifted over to the door, swinging it open. 

She was alarmed to see Rhaegar waiting outside her room, and from the look of it, he was surprised as well. His large indigo eyes, heavy and glossed with melancholy, flicked down to her feet, then trailed up every so slowly to cause a blush to heat her chest and neck.

"Hello," she said in a small voice. 

Her voice seemed to startle him out of whatever trance he was pulled into. "May I come in?"

She looked down at her silk robe, realizing with a flush that it clung suggestively to her legs and stomach. She felt the sudden urge to fold in on herself, to hide away the lines of her body from the eyes of her husband. "No," she said quickly, "I, uh, just got out of the bath."

Rhaegar let out a breath. "I can see that." He swallowed and looked into her eyes. "Have you eaten yet?"

She hadn't, not since her small midday meal with Rhaella and Viserys. And then she'd been in Flea Bottom, playing with and reading to the orphans for a short time before returning to the Keep. "Not tonight," she admitted.

"I'm having a late dinner in my solar." He paused. "I came to ask you to join me." 

Lyanna fought to keep the frown from her face. "Just you and me?"

"Just you and me," he confirmed.

The way he delivered his words made her heart flip in a queer way. Still, she couldn't very well deny him her company if all he wanted was companionship for supper. "Allow me to dress then."

"Of course," he said, "I'll wait just outside."

She dressed quickly in one of the gowns gifted to her from House Tully for her wedding; it was thick material of white and grey, and belted with leather that was studded with miniatures direwolves. It was as much a comfort to her as it was a reminder to her dragon.

_I am a direwolf and I am not afraid._

She found Rhaegar in the same exact spot he'd been before, and he led her quietly from the Maidenvault, Ser Gerold Hightower trailing in their wake.

"And how are you feeling?" Rhaegar asked her suddenly as they strolled; he looked her in the eyes when he spoke, a disarming habit of his that always had Lyanna feeling flayed open when he set that indigo gaze upon her. 

Confused at the question, she replied, "Fine..."

Rhaegar's eyes were on her, heavy and probing. "Lady Johanna mentioned you were ill, and that is why you did not attend Court this afternoon."

Lyanna immediately dropped her chin before he could read the deception written all over her face. She'd been irresponsible flitting off to Flea Bottom without creating an alibi for herself, and never would she have thought that Johanna would make an excuse on her behalf.

Why would the lady lie for her? It was not as if they were close; far from it really given Lyanna's cool responses to Johanna's every suggestion or request. 

"Uh, yes, I was ill earlier but I'm better now."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said quietly.

"Prince Rhaegar!"

Lyanna looked up. Two men were approaching them just as they were about to enter the Holdfast. 

Of the two, one was plump and short, wearing a billowy purple silk robe; his skin was powdered and stark white, and he smelled strongly of lilacs and perfume. Ser Oswell had pointed him out once a couple of weeks ago as Varys from the king's small council, but she hadn't personally met the man before. 

The other man, a stranger she'd never yet seen, was taller and massively wide; his yellow beard was oiled, forked, and coiled with rings of gold. His bedrobe was probably bigger than Rhaegar's canopy, and was made of a rich gold damask. On each of his large fingers was a gemstone ring, made of emerald, ruby, jet and jade, pearls, diamonds. 

"Lord Varys," Rhaegar greeted the shorter of the men. "I did not see you at Court today."

Varys smiled coyly. "I was busy, my prince. Gathering secrets is no small feat. Little birds need to be fed and flown."

As he spoke, a knot formed in Lyanna's stomach, coiling there until something akin to dread was swimming through her. She knew that voice; her eyes had been blind, but her ears had heard. 

It was the effeminate voice that she'd overheard from the black secret corridors - the one who had whispered of her father's alignment with other Great Houses, that spoke of Robert Baratheon's anger over her wedding. 

"And this is my friend, Illyrio Mopatis," Varys said. "Magister from Pentos."

Illyrio bowed. "Prince Rhaegar, pleased to make your acquaintance. And who is this lovely creature at your side?"

Lyanna's heart was beating furiously. Illyrio was the other voice, the deeper voice who'd been down in the dungeons with Varys. She tried not to let the transparency show on her face, fearing her fate if either of the men knew she'd heard their private words. 

"This is my wife," Rhaegar answered, "Lyanna of House Stark."

Illyrio took her fingers in his meaty hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. " _Very_ pleased to meet you, Princess Lyanna. Your beauty is unsurpassed, as only befits the wife of the Dragon Prince."

"You are too kind," she said with a clenched jaw. She jumped when Rhaegar's warm hand closed around hers gently. 

"I heard the king's justice was admired by all this evening," Varys smirked heavily. There was something to his tone that was off-kilter. The king's justice could only mean one thing...but was the Mad King ill enough to subject his madness before his entire Court? 

Rhaegar stiffened, announcing suddenly in a wooden voice, "If you'll excuse us, Lord Varys, my wife and I were just about to have dinner together." Then he tugged on her hand and walked off.

"Until next time, Your Highness," Varys intoned. 

Even when they walked away, Rhaegar held onto her hand. It made tingles shoot up her arm and she was so focused on the realization of Varys being the voice from the dungeons, and then his remark of the king's "justice", that she didn't notice when they entered a room one hallway over from where Rhaegar's bedroom was. 

The inside was just as large as his bedroom had been, but here there was only a long council table, a large slab of desk, and a small dining table set beneath a lovely red and black stained glass window depicting Balerion the Dread breathing hellfire over a castle. In one corner was an iron door, but she was unsure to where it led. 

The door to the hallway was closed behind them and Ser Gerold took his post outside. She and her husband were completely alone. 

"Lord Varys is a slippery man," Rhaegar said softly, going to the cart in the corner with heaps of food piled on top. "His trust is...fluid."

It was at the tip of her tongue to spill everything she'd overheard in the dark passages beneath the castle - to repeat every word they'd spoken of dragons and stags. 

Only two things stopped her: the fear of being forced under lock and key for sneaking from the Keep, and the fact that she didn't trust her husband. His dragonblood and unfamiliarity ensured that. 

But she yearned for an explanation of Varys' comment, for Rhaegar to speak the words that would confirm her fears of what had happened in Court while she was gone. Just as she was about to ask, Rhaegar spoke. 

"My father asked about you today." 

Her eyes flashed up, heart rate spiking violently. She didn't know how to respond to that. Lyanna wanted to be far out of King Aerys' mind, even without the knowledge that he freely burned people; she didn't like that his thoughts went to her. "Oh really?" She struggled for nonchalance. 

Rhaegar nodded, looking conflicted as he brought over two plates of steaming meat and potatoes. "He's asked that we dine with him tomorrow evening."

Lyanna sounded like a mouse when she asked, "Do we have to?"

Rhaegar sat across from her, absentmindedly swirling the wine in his glass. "We do. A king's request is not ignored."

Her jaw jutted out. _Fuck the king_ , she wanted to say, but she held her tongue lest she lose her head. Or worse. 

They began to pick at their food quietly, the silence washing over them in tense waves. She struggled to think of something she could say to him, but Rhaegar was still a stranger to her. 

"Why was Court held?" She decided to ask instead, hoping he'd mention the king's justice. 

Rhaegar did not rise to the bait. "A new Hand was appointed since Lord Tywin no longer wishes to hold the title."

"He resigned?" She asked; Rhaegar nodded. "Why?" Too curious for her own good, her father had always said. If she wasn't allowed to deny a king's dinner request, how could a Hand leave his king's service?

The question seemed to discomfort Rhaegar. "Lord Tywin was unhappy with my father's refusal."

"Refusal?" She repeated stubbornly. 

Rhaegar sighed, "His refusal to wed me to Tywin Lannister's daughter, Cersei."

"Oh." She wasn't really sure how that information was supposed to make her feel. Northerners didn't concern themselves with the games of Southerners, and yet she had heard all about House Lannister: they were an arrogant pride of lions with more gold than beauty. And they were quite beautiful. 

Lyanna thought of Ser Jaime then, the young Kingsguard - his tumbling locks of curly gold hair, that smug, handsome face, eyes green as a cat's. She was sure many a woman had cried when he donned that white cloak. 

"It seems that our marriage has caused more than one disappointment then," she blurted without thinking, a careless jest at their own expense. 

Rhaegar frowned. "How do you mean?"

 _Myself for one_ , she thought unkindly. "Robert Baratheon," she said instead. "Ned boasted many things of Lord Robert, but selflessness was not one of them. And he intended to have me."

All of a sudden, Rhaegar's sad, beautiful face transformed into an amused smile. "Who wouldn't take it as an upset to lose you?"

Heat crawled up her neck. "You speak too highly when you barely know me."

"I'd like to," he said, "know you, that is."

She swallowed down her food uneasily. Unsure of what to say, she let his words hang there until the awkwardness seemed to threaten to swallow them both. 

She was utterly thankful when someone knocked on the door. "Come in," Rhaegar called. 

The door opened and a man she had never before seen stepped in. It was apparently a day for meeting strangers. 

He was an imposing figure, this stranger man, his torso broad and legs thick. His skin was like leather, with a burst of lines bracketing his eyes. Atop his head was a short mop of bright red hair. 

And when he looked at Rhaegar, his entire face lit up. 

"Jon," Rhaegar said in mild surprise. 

"My prince, I wanted to remind you of the small council meeting in the morning. Oh," he finally seemed to notice Lyanna sitting there. 

She observed the man who had such keen eyes for her husband, the way they were trained on Rhaegar's face with a startling intensity. And now on her, with undeserved contempt. 

"Jon," Rhaegar said lightly, "I don't believe you've had the chance to meet my wife yet."

Jon had a stern set to his jaw now, something stormy passing over his face. He strode forward dutifully and bowed. "Jon Connington, Your Highness."

She inclined her head. "Pleased to meet you, Lord Connington."

He seemed to judge her from where he stood, something akin to envy in the narrowing of his eyes. 

"Jon was appointed the new Hand of the king today," Rhaegar explained. 

Only then did she notice the shining badge over his chest, in the shape of a brassy hand. "Congratulations," she offered dryly. She didn't understand Southron ambitions; the North didn't support such fancies. 

Jon thanked her and seemed to sway on his feet, clearly wishing she was gone so he could speak his mind. It was fine with her; she was done eating, and wanted to go visit with Smoke before it was entirely too late. 

"I'm going to take my leave now," she announced into the loaded silence. 

"Lyanna," Rhaegar went to object. 

"I want to see Smoke," she explained, taking in the way Rhaegar softened at the mention of his wedding gift to her. 

"Very well then." He stood from the table, coming to embrace her just as she scurried to the door. 

Rhaegar stood there awkwardly, watching as her hand closed around the ring set into the door. But before she could slip away, Rhaegar spoke again. 

"Dinner tomorrow with my father."

 _I hope he chokes._ "Looking forward to it," she said.


	23. Five is a Crowd

"Tywin Lannister is more a snake than a lion," Jon Connington said, wearily rubbing a weathered hand over his face. The man's short red hair stood on end, like a cat who sensed danger. 

"House Lannister wields a formidable army of over fifty thousand. If I can get him to march on the capital, deposing my father will be swift." Rhaegar felt bone-tired, a heavy, aching fatigue that seemed to tie down his feet until he walked on stone legs. 

"I do not doubt your acumen, my prince, but to trust House Lannister is to seal yourself to their will."

Rhaegar sighed. "I know I will have to reward them somehow for their help. And make no mistake, I do need their help."

"What about your support in the North? Dorne?" Oswell urged, standing tall in Jon's solar. Arthur was a silent force beside him. 

"Lord Rickard promised his loyalty, but Winterfell is a month's ride with a large party. I needed their support for when I ascend the throne, not when I _reach_ for it. Lannister's army will be my sword in the darkness. Father may hate Tywin right now, but he trusts Casterly Rock more than he does the North. Lannister troops will be received to King's Landing easily enough."

"And Dorne?" Jon repeated. 

"The ruling princess of Dorne died a few weeks ago," Arthur said quietly. "Her son, Doran, now rules at Sunspear."

Sometimes it was easy for Rhaegar to forget that Arthur was a Dornishman at heart, even with his purple eyes clashing so brightly with his dark hair and Dawn glowing brightly across his back. Arthur always seemed to have been born a white knight, great from the womb. 

"And?" Jon prompted with a brisk tone. Jon was not fond of Dorne as a whole, and even though he respected Arthur quite a bit, there was an underlying tension always present between him and Arthur Dayne. 

"Father has decided to make a betrothal between Prince Doran's daughter, Arianne and Viserys," Rhaegar admitted to his father's freshly-forged plan to bring Dorne to their knees. "He is sending me to get contracts signed and dower discussed."

"Your father seeks to make connections in Dorne?" It was the first that Jon had heard of the plan, even with the privilege of his position as Hand of the King. 

Rhaegar nodded. "He grows paranoid of Dorne's power and wishes to rein them in by tying their House to ours."

"Then perhaps you do not need the Lannisters' army at all. Perhaps you could speak to Prince Doran-"

Rhaegar cut that thought off. "I do plan on speaking to Doran about his loyalty to me, but he will not send his army past the reaches of Dornish soil. They've not managed to remain out of the fold all this time by acting rashly with their swords. No, I need Tywin Lannister."

Jon implored the prince with his eyes. "I will do whatever you need of me, my prince. I only wish there was another way."

Rhaegar frowned sadly. "As I wish that my father's mind was still sound. Unfortunately, the gods see fit to put us to tests that will make or break us." He closed his eyes. "And I do not intend to break."

* * *

At dinner, Lyanna looked positively stunning in a long dress of sea green, the sleeves of which were lined in gold, and her dark hair tumbled over her chest like a turbulent waterfall. 

The Queen's Ballroom seemed to shine with the magnitude of a silver sun, the candles inside reflecting a thousand-fold off the beaten silver mirrors hung on the walls. Black sky outlined the high arched windows on the south wall. 

The long wooden table was crowded with plates of rich swan, buttered turnips, salad, blackberry tarts, and hot apples. Crystal decanters of wine glinted magnificently. 

The king sat at the head of the table, with Queen Rhaella and Viserys on the left side and Lyanna and Rhaegar on the right. 

Aerys wore purple robes mottled with burn marks that seemed to swallow his thin frame. His dull silver hair, once a proud vestige of Valyrian ancestry, was matted in long ropes and constantly tangling through his clawed fingernails. 

The king seemed to watch the room with suspicious glares, even as his taster successfully confirmed the food was clean of poison. Rhaegar wondered if it was the madness that stole the purple from his father's eyes. 

"Girl," Aerys suddenly coughed, turning his attention to Lyanna. Grey eyes flashed up to meet the king's. "Where were you yesterday?" He demanded. "You were not present to witness Court."

Lyanna swallowed audibly, pulling her spine straight. She looked like a wolf reacting to a threat. "Excuse my absence, Your Grace, I was feeling ill."

"Ill?" Aerys repeated gruffly. "I do hope that doesn't impede your ability to carry a child."

Lyanna's cheekbones bloomed with a stripe of pink. Rhaegar tightened his fingers into the material of his pants, suddenly tense at the steer of conversation. His father's moods were like the turn of the sea, gentle one moment and violent the next. 

"Wait," Viserys screeched, "Lya's pregnant?!" His lilac eyes were upturned and large with glee. 

Rhaegar could have smiled at the nickname his brother had adopted for his wife, but Lyanna's shrinking stance made him bite down on his mouth. "No, Viserys, she is not pregnant."

If she was, it wasn't by Rhaegar's seed. Lyanna spent all her time in the Maidenvault or with Smoke and a group of guards, so there was no chance for her belly to swell. 

Lyanna dropped her chin to her collarbones, clenching her jaw so hard, Rhaegar feared she might break. _Like iron_ , he thought. 

"Oh," the little prince frowned, obviously disappointed. The small boy was in the constant presence of his mother and wanted for young companionship no doubt. 

"When then?" The king demanded, spittle flying from his mouth like cannons. "It's been long enough since the wedding. Over a month."

Rhaella flinched at the king's side, glancing up with a face full of sympathy. Before Aerys had a chance to further Lyanna's humiliation, Rhaegar distracted him. "When would you like me to leave for Dorne, Father?" He prayed for it to work. 

Aerys blinked, mind wandering. "Oh, yes yes. You'll leave within a fortnight." He coughed. "And take Viserys as well."

"But, Aerys!" Rhaella exclaimed. 

The king whirled on his sister-queen, black eyes flaring with cruel delight. "You dare to speak against me?" Rhaella froze in his shadow, entranced by his fire. "The boy will meet his betrothed. Viserys will go with Rhaegar to Dorne, and _you_ will stay here. With me."

Dread shivered through Rhaegar; he suddenly was dizzy with the urge to lash his father, to bestow upon him every single mark Aerys had ever inflicted upon his sweet mother. He'd never personally been struck by Aerys, too old by the time the king's mind had started to blacken, but he wasn't ignorant to the shadows on his mother's lily skin, or the hesitance in his little brother's gaze. 

And when it seemed that Aerys was close to beating Rhaella with an audience of royals, a Stark, and a few Kingsguards, Lyanna jumped in, her voice shaky. "I like the dragon skulls in the throne room," she offered with a forced smile. "I've never seen anything like them."

Like a balm, her words soothed Aerys' temper. He slackened in his seat, turning his eyes on the little Northern girl. And then something queer happened, a feat so rare that it made Rhaegar's blood go cold. 

Aerys smiled. "They are magnificent," he agreed. His beady eyes seemed to study Lyanna, painting her skin with his gaze. "You remind me of someone I used to know many years past."

"Oh?" Lyanna murmured, taut with anxiety but unwilling to let his madness return to the queen. 

"Joanna Lannister," Aerys said, and Rhaella stiffened in her seat, her fork freezing mid-air as she waited on a cliff's edge for the king to finish. 

"She had blonde hair and green eyes of course," Aerys continued, "but she had the loveliest face, fashioned right from the stars. The gods saw fit to grace her with a beauty that was almost unbearable. You're like her in that sense."

Lyanna's eyes widened and her smile could crack glass. She seemed to sense the meaning beneath his words, as did Rhaegar, and it made him wholly uncomfortable. 

The rumors of his father's infatuation with Joanna Lannister was common knowledge, and the beginning of the end for Tywin and Aerys' friendship. Even time could not abate the sting, could not erase the dragon's lust or the lion's insult. 

"That is very kind, Your Grace," Lyanna allowed with stiff graciousness, "thank you."

When empty plates were cleared, some of the tension seemed to leave with them. Though the air still crackled with an intense energy, like a wave building and building until it stood tall as a mountain, threatening to drown everything in its sight. 

Rhaegar was poxed with the need to shield Lyanna from his father's probing view, to erase her vision in the king's mind so that he never thought on her again. Much less in the terms of her irrefutable beauty. 

Into the quiet, Rhaegar said, "I will make the preparations to leave for Sunspear in a week's time then."

"Yes," Aerys replied dazedly. "You'll bring Viserys as discussed, three Kingsguards, and fifty Gold Cloaks."

There was a glaring omission that he felt almost ill at ease to remind the king of. "And the princess of course," Rhaegar added. 

Aerys looked up quickly, eyes settling on his son. "No, I think Princess Lyanna can stay behind in King's Landing."

Rhaegar paused, struggling to think up an excuse. He couldn't leave his wife behind, not when his father seemed so...interested in her all of a sudden. The bruises on his mother was proof enough of what came of a king's attention. 

"I would rather my wife accompany me," Rhaegar insisted. His muscles were tight with adrenaline, and his heart pumped furiously. 

"She'll be perfectly fine here," Aerys promised with a sneer. "The princess stays."

"It's not about safety, Your Grace," Rhaegar argued, realizing what he'd need to do in order to bring her. "I need a child, therefore her presence is needed at Sunspear."

The room settled into a brief, but terribly awkward, silence. He could feel Lyanna vibrating in apprehension and upset beside him, but he paid her no mind. He was locked into a stare with his father, his blood singing. 

Aerys was grinding his teeth angrily, and one of his fingernails snapped clean in half as his hands dug into the table's edge. "Very well," he allowed woodenly. "Get her with child and quickly. If you know how, that is."

Rhaegar smiled tightly. "Yes, Father. With your permission, I would like to escort my wife to bed now."

Aerys waved his hand impatiently, and Lyanna sprouted from the table, scurrying off while Rhaegar strode after her. She all but ran from the ballroom to the Maidenvault, and it was everything he could do not to yell after her and attract more attention. 

He did manage to stop her before she could slip into her room and bar the door. He closed his fingers around her wrist and she yanked herself away. "What was that?" She demanded hotly. 

"Which part?" Rhaegar wondered sarcastically. The entire dinner had been a terrible jest. 

"Let's start with the part about taking me with you to Dorne - which I didn't even know you were going by the way - so that you can impregnate me."

Rhaegar clenched his teeth together before speaking. "I was saving you the punishment of staying behind with no one around to protect you from my father's whims."

"I don't need your protection," she hissed. "And I definitely don't need you implying that we are having sex."

Rhaegar's face crumpled in confusion. "Why is _that_ the part you're focusing on? Why does that matter to you? We're married, they already assume I bed you."

She growled. "Only because you _allow_ them to assume!"

"You want me to tell them I haven't touched you? Is that it? For what possible reason could that benefit anyone?" A true curiosity was piqued now and he studied her face to catch any reactions. 

Lyanna stood in rigid silence, her body still as stone. Her jaw was hard and her eyes harder, but it was the innocence about her that told Rhaegar everything he needed to know. He wanted to laugh and cry at her naïveté. 

"You think that if the king knows you to be a virgin still," Rhaegar said softly, "that he might set aside our marriage...?"

Lyanna's lack of response was all the answer he needed. 

He chuckled unkindly. "Make no mistake, wife, my father will never cast you aside. You are young and come from a powerful family. He will not lose this alliance." Alliance was putting it delicately; paranoia was more like it. 

At the breaking of this news, Lyanna went to her knees, tears spilling over her cheeks. "I thought..."

Rhaegar couldn't help the black bud of hurt that bloomed in his chest; he knew Lyanna wasn't terribly _fond_ of him, but he also didn't assume she _hated_ him so. 

Perhaps part of the blame fell on his shoulders. He'd just assumed that with the promise of Maggy's fortune coupled with the prophecy, Lyanna was insured to come around one day. Was it possible that if he didn't work for it, work for _her_ , the prophecy would never come to fruition?

He smoothed a finger over the trail of her tears. "Calm down," he soothed. 

She turned her thundercloud eyes up at him. "He said I remind him of Lady Joanna."

Rhaegar nodded. "He did."

"He'll never let me go..." She breathed out with horrible realization.

"He won't."

Shock had seemed to settle in Lyanna's spirit and she climbed to her legs like a shaky foal. "I'd like to sleep now." Rhaegar sighed and wiped the remainder of tears from her face. She pulled from his touch and slipped through the door of her room, closing it behind her. 

Rhaegar sat in the shadow of her entryway for a long time, before Ser Arthur came looking for him. They walked together to Maegor's, though the Kingsguard didn't say a thing. 

Rhaegar didn't offer anything up either, his mind racing manically, dark thoughts and brilliant color images fighting for dominance. There was a war of ideas and notions and theories clouding his headspace. 

But one thought in particular plagued him with incessant ferocity. 

If looking like Joanna Lannister was meant as a compliment, _why_ did it feel like a threat?


	24. Choppy Seas Ahead

The voyage from King's Landing to Sunspear was an arduous one, filled with days and nights of choppy seas and other times smooth waters. Sometimes the sky was a perfect, cloudless blue, while other days it rained and poured like the gods sought vengeance on their journey. 

Many of the Gold Cloaks that had accompanied them had shaky sea legs, though, and spent each day emptying their stomachs over the side of _Dragon's Wing_ , the massive war galley they were sailing to Dorne. 

Even Viserys was sick after the first few days of traveling, wailing and screaming for Rhaella, and only settling down when Lyanna came to smooth his hair. He'd become helplessly dependent upon her in the short time they'd been alone and never failed to reach for her or ask after her. 

_"Where's Lya?"_ were the two most common words out of Viserys' mouth, no matter who approached him, be it a maidservant, Oswell, Rhaegar, or a Gold Cloak. He always wanted _her_. 

Much to her credit, Lyanna was perfect with him. She was always serving to his childish whims, allowing him to play at dragons and knights and heroes and villains. Oftentimes, Rhaegar would sit back and watch, observing the way his wife handled his brother with such care and devotion. 

Eventually, Lyanna succumbed to seasickness as well, and took to her cabin for a few days while Viserys roamed aimlessly, caught between wanting to play and wishing to annoy Lyanna from her rest. The boy finally settled for following Rhaegar to and fro, chattering away happily. 

The days at sea seemed to blend together, one water swaying into another until Rhaegar could no longer tell if the waves were sapphire or emerald. _Dragon's Wing_ had sailed past Blackwater Bay and Tarth, past Shipbreaker Bay, and along the coast of Estermont. 

Before long, the ship's captain informed Rhaegar that they were sailing through the part of the narrow sea that encompassed the Stepstones, and would arrive at Sunspear within a day's travel. 

The air was hot and heavy, even more so than King's Landing, forcing Lyanna to don her summer silks and Rhaegar to wear his silk breeches and his linen tunic alone. 

The Dornish breeze felt good over his skin, warming his dragonblood, but Lyanna's cheeks were tinged pink from the sun and she took to looking over the ship's side; saltwater was constantly rushing over the edge of the galley, splashing her or Viserys any time they got too close. 

It was at the front of the ship that he found them on the last day. 

"Viserys, hold on to the ropes." Lyanna pulled the little prince securely against her chest, locking one arm around his stomach and her other hand around his ankle. Viserys stood on the lip's edge of _Dragon's Wing_ with his arms outstretched. 

He squealed as a large spray of saltwater rained onto his face, immediately falling back into Lyanna who struggled to support the weight of the little prince. Rhaegar felt a small smile lift his lips. 

Viserys twisted around in Lyanna's hold, his face brightening when he caught view of his older brother. "Rhaegar! Guess what!"

Rhaegar and Arthur approached, the former of the two halting when Viserys came barreling into his legs. "I'm bad at guessing. Tell me," he coaxed. 

Lyanna hesitantly lifted her eyes to Rhaegar's, and he physically had to tamp down the urge to smile. Ever since that wretched dinner when Lyanna's delusions of being set aside had been put to rest, things had been...progressively less aggressive between them. It was a game of sorts, the way they danced around each other in some awkward limbo, avoiding the inevitable but still pursuing the future. 

He knew that for anything to happen, there would need to be compromise and he would need to work. Hard. He hadn't earned her trust, and it still seemed a long while off until she would agree to bear his first child, let alone all three. He was trying though. 

But time was thinning and his father worsening, and he needed to take action to procure an heir before his hand was forced and chaos ensued over the throne. 

"Lyanna and I are getting married!" Viserys announced with pure glee, staring up at Rhaegar with startling lilac eyes. 

Arthur sputtered a laugh, but Rhaegar adopted a serious countenance, no matter how much he wanted to smile. "Well, I'm afraid that's not possible. You see, _I'm_ already married to her."

Viserys frowned, twisting to look back at Lyanna. "But Lyanna, you promised!"

Lyanna smiled softly, coming to kneel next to him so that her eyes and his were leveled; she nodded seriously, pushing a lock of platinum hair from the boy's forehead. "I did promise. And I stand by it."

"Two husbands?" Rhaegar asked, amusement coloring his tone. 

Lyanna shrugged, looking up at him. "Viserys made a proposal I couldn't refuse. Besides," she smirked and tickled Viserys, "I could be the first princess with two brother-husbands. How special would that be?"

"Yeah!" Viserys shouted, squirming from her clawed hands with screaming giggles. 

But Rhaegar continued watching her. 

A part of his heart ached to see Lyanna with a child, even if it was not theirs. He could pretend easily enough though, wondering if their own true children would have silver hair or brown hair or both; if they would have eyes like their mother, like rolling thunderclouds, or his eyes, a twilight indigo. 

Would they have fiery blood but cool heads, or blood like ice and a heart on fire? 

"I'm sorry, Viserys," Rhaegar finally said after a moment, "but we're on the way to meet the girl who will be your true wife one day." The boy pouted instantly. Rhaegar looked at Lyanna. "Besides, I'm not so good at sharing."

* * *

That night after dinner, after entertaining Viserys with cyvasse, and then putting him to bed in his own cabin, Rhaegar sought out his wife. Most of the crew and guards were in their cups or on their way there, chugging a good portion of their supply of Arbor Gold on the upper decks. 

Oswell and Arthur were sleeping, but Lewyn was wide awake, trailing after Rhaegar like a white shadow until he'd been released to sleep as well. The Dornish Kingsguard had been a husk of his former self ever since the news came of his sister's passing, and was more likely to scowl than smile. Lewyn's accompaniment to Dorne was as much for him as it was for Rhaegar, a chance for Lewyn to pay respects to his family and late sister. 

Rhaegar walked up and down the galley, but found no trace of Lyanna. He checked her cabin, but it was empty, and then he checked Viserys', but he was asleep and alone except for the Gold Cloak that was posted outside his door. 

Finally, Rhaegar made his way back to where Lyanna and Viserys had played that morning, at the front lip of the boat that sliced through the sapphire waters of the sea. There, he found her laying on her back, staring upwards. 

"Princess," he said softly, trying not to scare her. 

Lyanna's head twitched up for a moment, and then she pushed herself up to her elbows. The position made the curve of her body unfairly pronounced, the silk of her dress straining over her chest and dipping low at her stomach. 

"Prince," she replied mockingly. An empty bottle of Arbor Gold lay at her side. There was a glazed look to her eyes, like lightning in a thundercloud. He wondered if their promised prince would have her eyes.

"Would you mind if I kept you company?"

She shrugged sloppily, laying back down and resting her arms over her ribs. "Go right ahead."

Rhaegar bent to his knees, and then reclined to his back, gracefully positioning himself at her side so that their heads were next to each other. Upwards, the sky was black velvet picked with a million diamond dust stars; they seemed to sparkle even brighter than they ever had in the stink of King's Landing. 

"What were you doing out here alone?" Rhaegar finally asked, cutting through the silence. A hot breeze caressed his skin and hair, mingling his silver locks with hers. 

"Just thinking," she replied. 

"About what?" He urged. 

Her head fell to the side and her eyes bore into him as she smiled and said, "Home. My family." She was quiet for a moment. "My brother, Brandon, is getting married soon."

"To Catelyn Tully, I know."

She nodded, studying him with a fierceness that took his breath away. "Could I- could _we_ -" Lyanna sighed. "Never mind."

Rhaegar frowned, turning so that he was propped up on one elbow and staring down at her face. "No, what were you going to say?" 

Lyanna bit her lip, working it over with her teeth. The sight sent a swift rush of heat through him. "I was wondering if we could go. To the wedding, that is. It's at Riverrun. And I know your father probably won't let us, but I really want to and-"

Rhaegar hushed her gently, stopping her rambling twist of words. "We can go to Brandon's wedding."

She looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, like he had just promised her the world. "Really? You promise?"

"I promise you, on my honor as your husband, that we can go to your brother's wedding." He would give anything to gain her trust, her allegiance. But he felt sick about it, like he was bribing her in exchange for children. 

And then she smiled, something so rare and beautiful it broke his heart to see. "Thank you," she breathed, eager and grateful. 

"You're welcome," he said softly, running his eyes over the curve of her mouth, the thin angle of her jaw. "I will always give you whatever I can." 

And he meant it; if she was to give him an heir so he could finally depose his father, and two more children to complete the prophecy, Rhaegar would grant her whatever her heart desired. 

At that, she seemed to pull back a bit, her invisible shield up once more. But for all her efforts, the golden wine had loosened her wariness and before long she was randomly bursting with laughter, clutching at her belly as she sobbed tears into the wooden deck. 

The sight of her happy had Rhaegar grinning, and he couldn't help but ask, "What are you laughing about?"

She continued to giggle as she answered, "I was just thinking about my brother, Benjen, and this trick we used to pull on Brandon."

"Trick?" He prompted, thoroughly amused at her childish laugh that was full of warmth and happiness. He was aware that the only reason she was being so free with her thoughts, with _him_ , was due to the wine, but he refused to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

"Yes," she agreed, "well, whenever important lords from around the North used to come feast with us at Winterfell, Brandon always acted very high and mighty. He'd put on his 'lord's face' and try to boss me and Benjen around to impress this lord and that one. He thought he was something else. 

"Well, at the feasts, Brandon never failed to get drunk. Beyond drunk, really. Father always said that I had a touch of wolf's blood, and Brandon more than a touch. Neither of us was ever very good with controlling our impulses. 

"Anyway," she shook her head violently, "Benjen and I would wait until Brandon was well and truly in his cups, and then we would switch out his cup for something else, a drink as horrid as we could make it. Sometimes it was rain from the muddy puddles outside mixed in with Dornish red. Other times it was dirty dish water and brown ale, with chunks of old food floating about. 

"There was always just enough alcohol in it to cover the stench of whatever else we'd thrown in, but not enough to mask the taste. After a while, Brandon would become suspicious of his drink, and he'd scowl or cuss a bit, but he never caught on. 

"Benjen and I kept the game going for years without Brandon knowing. Last time we played was...the tourney at Harrenhal."

Rhaegar chuckled, positively enamored with the image of Lyanna full and bright, alive with the stories of her family; for a moment she had come out of her shell and it was glorious. 

Fumbling for something to add, Rhaegar said, "I liked Benjen." He'd only spoken to the boy a few times in his stay at the Keep, but he was bright and eager to please, always watching after Arthur with hope in his eyes. 

Lyanna's smile died. "I miss my family."

"You'll see them at the wedding," Rhaegar pointed out. 

"Not Benjen," she corrected. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and Benjen will be left behind."

Rhaegar frowned, confused at the notion, but wisely not commenting. "He can come visit you at the capital, or Dragonstone one day."

Lyanna scowled instantly. "I'd sooner go home."

Sensing the black turn of her mood, Rhaegar urged, "Tell me about Winterfell."

For a moment he worried she would prickle again, rise against him with that dark fire of hers that came out from time to time. But instead, one corner of her mouth lifted and she launched into a monologue of her childhood, her tongue once more lightened by the drink. 

She recounted tales of the godswood and the wolfswood, stories of the Winter Kings in the crypts below Winterfell. She regaled him of Old Nan and Ned Stark and what little she remembered of her mother. She spoke of the Broken Tower and the way she and Benjen would try to climb to the top, always unsuccessful. 

By the time she was finished, she was still drunk and smiling and lovely and alive. 

Rhaegar thought that perhaps they had taken a step in the right direction, a step that would bring them closer to a child, closer to bringing his father down, closer to the Eternal Summer. 

"I've never been before, to Winterfell," he admitted. "I'd like to see it."

Lyanna looked up. "I'm not sure you'd like it." He cocked his head in confusion. "Dragons do not fare well so far North."

He smirked, rising to her challenge. "My dragon's blood will keep me warm."

She shrugged, amused, and lifted her face to the sky. "Don't say I didn't warn you."


	25. The Sun and the Wolf

The Water Gardens dawned in a bright blaze, everything across the Dornish capital bathed in a golden luster unparalleled by heaven and earth. The air was sticky with the salt breeze blowing in from the Summer Sea, and ripe with the scent of bursting blood oranges. 

The day roared with life - from children squealing in the pools to the wind whistling through the halls to a hidden chorus of cicadas chittering in the limbs of the orange trees. 

Elia rolled over in bed, careful to avoid Ashara's still form, and got to her feet. Arching her back, the cracks of her spine punctuated with three little _pops!_ , Elia opened her window, inviting in the sounds of the day. 

Ashara instantly groaned, rubbing her fingers over her sleepy violet eyes. "Draw the curtains," she rasped, stuffing her face into the pillow. 

Elia frowned, ghosting over to run her hand through Ashara's dark hair. "You should see the maester today."

In the months after Harrenhal, Ashara had become increasingly ill: sleeping constantly, nauseated half the time and vomiting the rest, with a tender body that begged for rest even upon waking. 

"I don't want to," Ashara whined. "I'll get over it soon."

Elia sighed. "If you're not better within the week, you're seeing the maester."

"Fine."

Elia walked over to throw open her chamber doors, preparing to call for her handmaidens, when she gasped. Oberyn lounged in her antechamber, casually picking his nails with his favorite jeweled dagger. The dirty bottoms of his boots mucked up the velvet of her chaise. 

"You slept late," he said, the tilt of his voice mocking. 

"Ashara was tired," she said by way of explanation, coming to sit beside her brother. 

"Ashara's _always_ tired now," he retorted. "I'm just grateful you're sleeping off this newly found manic energy of yours."

Elia sighed a long breath, resting her head against the sheen of his black hair. Elia had been restless, antsy, and an absolute nightmare to live with in the weeks since the announcement that Prince Rhaegar would be coming to Dorne. 

She'd not seen the prince since Harrenhal, nor had any contact with him, but the memories of his lips against hers warmed her through the nights. Oftentimes, she thought on their last meeting, her parting words. 

She felt equal parts black shame and potent excitement at the possibility of her offer to him; she doubted that the prince's marriage had seeded any love in so little time with Lyanna Stark, which only meant good things for her. 

And Dornish culture was widely liberated, accepting of lovers and bastards and everything else the rest of Westeros deemed taboo. 

While others saw a prince's mistress as something to turn a cheek to, in Dorne, not an eye would be batted, by peer, husband, or wife. Elia was a highborn of royal blood, a second child, and had a definitive say in her future. 

Her future was Rhaegar, and Elia was determined to make it so. 

"Oh!" Oberyn started, schooling his face into a mask of thought, positively reeking of insincerity. "I forgot to tell you. The royal party arrived at Sunspear several hours ago."

Elia jumped to her feet, heart stuttering. "You're kidding...they weren't due until tomorrow."

Maddeningly, Oberyn shrugged. "I suppose the gods of the seas were on the dragon's side. Doran received them at Sunspear, and escorted them here, to the Water Gardens."

She could hardly believe it. She'd been waiting so long to see Rhaegar again, having had to miss his wedding as her mother's frailty worsened; she passed away in the dead of night two weeks after the royal wedding.

Elia had been prepared for such a thing though and it came with no surprise; her mother had always been a fragile thing, passing her questionable health on to Elia herself. They both had bones like birds, unable to eat full meals, with a tendency to wake at all hours in the night. 

"They're here then? In the palace?"

Oberyn grinned, his black eyes flashing with cruel humor. "That is what I said, lovely sister."

Elia turned, rushing back into her rooms. She went straight for her trunks, tearing through folds of silks and chiffons, reds and blues and greens and yellows. 

"Wear the yellow!" Oberyn called over his shoulder as he strutted out of her room. Her hand closed over light golden silk; if there was anything Oberyn knew, it was spears, poison, and _beauty_. 

"What are you doing?" Ashara wondered groggily, sitting up in bed. 

Elia stopped and grinned up at her friend. "Getting ready to catch a dragon of course."

* * *

Elia linked her arm through Ashara Dayne's, partly to appear calm and collected, partly to assist her tired friend. They strolled through the halls of the Water Gardens, shadowed by the sounds of the crash and retreat of the nearby sea that resounded against pale pink stone like a wispy lover's sigh. 

Areo Hotah, captain of her eldest brother's guards, stood post at the entrance of Doran's private terrace; Areo was a thick man with an unhappy look and a massive longaxe to wield should he ever be afflicted with a murderous urge. Three men in white armor stood with him: Ser Oswell, Ser Arthur, Ashara's brother, and Ser Lewyn, her uncle. 

She immediately went to hug her uncle, the edges of his armor biting into her thin ribs. "Uncle, I've missed you."

Lewyn clucked her under the chin with a sad smile. "I've missed you as well, my dear. I hope you are doing okay..."

She nodded with a watery smile. "I am. Promise."

"Good," he breathed. "Well, go on in then. We'll catch up later."

Elia left Ashara behind to catch up with Arthur as she came before Areo. He stepped aside for Elia, and she swallowed down the lump of anxiety in her throat when she stepped through. There, overlooking the maze of gardens and pools, was Doran, resting comfortably in his wheeled chair, and Prince Rhaegar, sipping wine from a golden cup as he sat next to her brother. 

If it was possible, Rhaegar was even more beautiful than she could have remembered - bits of silver hair braided off his face, pale collarbones bared from an untied tunic, long legs kicked out casually before him. 

"Elia," Doran said softly in surprise, "I wasn't expecting you."

Elia smiled, sweeping her eyes over Rhaegar. "I couldn't very well leave our royal guest without a greeting, could I? Prince Rhaegar," she intoned, " _so_ good to see you again."

Rhaegar stood from his chair, taking her proffered hand to kiss. Her heart hammered furiously. "You as well, Princess Elia." She noticed that he didn't leave his eyes too long on her, choosing to focus on other things instead. 

The servant that had been standing dormant in the corner ghosted forward. "Princess, would you like me to fetch you some food? Wine, perhaps?"

"Blood oranges," Elia ordered, thinking of Ashara's tender stomach. "A plate of them. And summerwine as well." The servant scurried off. 

Elia took the empty chair next to Rhaegar, sitting primly so as to show off her diaphanous gown of yellow silk. There was a glaring absence. 

"Where is your new wife, Your Highness?"

Rhaegar immediately leaned forward from his seat, pointing a long, thin finger over the terrace. "Down there. She's the one playing with my little brother, Viserys."

Elia scooted forward, leaning to look at the scene below. Legions of children splashed through the pools, mothers and caretakers standing off to the side. 

Two people in particular caught Elia's eye - a small boy about Arianne's age with Rhaegar's coloring, pale and silver-haired with a smile just for the young woman he played with. 

The woman wore a sleeveless dress of lilac silk, the skirts of which were splotchy with water stains; she happily kicked her feet through the water, her dark hair mussed by the hot Dornish wind as she chased the boy out of the pools and toward the palace. 

"How charming," she murmured with a gritted smile. "I can't wait to meet her."

It only took a few moments before Viserys burst into Doran's terrace, Lyanna close behind, breathless with laughter. The lilac silk hugged her body, clinging to the places that were wet from the pools. She had a wild beauty, Rhaegar's wife, the type that made you stop and take notice. 

"Lyanna, Viserys" Rhaegar said, "come meet Doran's sister, Princess Elia."

Viserys stumbled forward, frowning with a pursed mouth. " _Princess_ Elia...? But Lya's your princess."

"They're both princesses," Rhaegar chuckled, "Elia is a princess of Dorne, and Lyanna is our princess."

Elia's frown deepened with a distinct hurt. She didn't want to hear or even think about Lyanna being Rhaegar's, no matter the innocence with which it was delivered, or the irrationality of her feelings. It tore at her heart with beastly claws; Elia was meant to be his, just as a dragon belonged to fire. 

"I'm no princess," Lyanna sang, jumping forward to playfully nip at Viserys. "I'm a wolf."

The boy giggled, growling back at her. "Well, I'm a dragon!"

"Yes, little dragon, yes you are." Lyanna stood and nodded her head at Elia, no recognition in those grey eyes to suggest that the girl even _knew_ of Elia's brief dalliance with her husband at Harrenhal. "Princess Elia, I am very sorry for your loss."

Elia's heart sank at the mention of her mother. "Thank you. It is nice to finally meet you, Your Highness." She hoped the utter envy wasn't too terribly obvious in her voice. 

"Call me Lyanna," the girl said immediately, winding her hand around Viserys'. 

"Lya, Lya," he interjected, hopping from one foot to the other. "I want to play again!"

Lyanna's face transformed when she looked upon his little face, brightening like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Let's go then."

And without a word or passing smile for her royal husband, Lyanna spirited away, following the squeals of a happy child-prince. As Elia watched her go, jealous contempt heavy in her heart, she wondered the outcome of a match between a wolf and the sun.


	26. Dry Ice

Lyanna had never felt less like a princess than when she wilted beneath the glowing orange sun like a winter rose far from home. Waves of heat beat upon her, the sun's rays dragging along her skin like a thousand licking tongues of fire. 

The flimsy material of her gown hung uncomfortably on her skin, feeling more like a bundle of furs than capital silk. Lyanna wished for leggings or breeches, but the ladies of Dorne opted for gowns, and revealing ones at that; and their trip to visit with the Martells was primarily for business and not pleasure. 

Lyanna may have been willful and stubborn, but she knew when not to test the limits. So she donned her gowns in silence, fantasizing about racing through the godswood with Benjen. 

For the millionth time, she cursed the sky. In what world did people actually enjoy the unforgiving heat, the sun sitting high on its throne in the blue sky, glaring down at people like they were mere ants on the scale? Where were the assuaging breezes, the lovely shading clouds?

She'd never missed Winterfell more. Wolves were not made for hellfire. 

The sole thing that kept her from dying of boredom, or heatstroke, was Ser Oswell Whent. With Viserys gone with Rhaegar to discuss dower with the Prince of Dorne, Ser Oswell was assigned to watch Lyanna for the day. 

She might have been mildly insulted if she didn't like Oswell so much. Ser Arthur was a good man but he was quiet and introspective, a close personality to her husband. And Ser Lewyn was a deeply melancholic man, something dangerous at his surface just waiting to break; in truth, she did not like the Dornish prince-Kingsguard at all, and thanked the gods every time he was far away. 

But Oswell, he was lively and fun and full of humor. He reminded her of Brandon sometimes, with his bawdy jokes and flagrant tales. It made being apart from her brothers just a little less terrible. 

So while Viserys and Rhaegar sat discussing politics and dower and whatever else with Doran, Lyanna and Ser Oswell explored the grounds of the Water Gardens. 

It was a sprawling manse, full of open hallways and pale pink terraces and mazes of greenery, dotted with large, shallow pools of crystal water. An abundance of children splashed around, squealing with joy, borne of a myriad of stations. 

They explored well through the morning, eventually making their way to the armory where Oswell handled a few knives and daggers. It was utterly empty there, but stocked with an array of weapons and bows, arrows flocked into a deep barrel. 

Along one wall was a line of eight feet tall shafts, their heads shining with steel. Lyanna had never seen so many spears in her life; Northmen fought with swords and maces, lances and rough hands. 

But spears...they seemed somehow graceful and deadly, even when stocked. Their steel tips gleamed at her enticingly, blue playing through their metal. 

_Touch me_ , they seemed to say, _do it._

"I wouldn't touch those," an accented voice said from behind her.

She whirled. It was Oberyn Martell, the rogue brother of Doran and Elia she'd been introduced to several days after arriving in Dorne. 

He was a sinewy man, tight muscles coiling around his bones like a snake, with skin like beaten copper. His black hair was glossy, and as oiled as those viper's eyes. He looked every inch a dangerous man. 

"And why not?" She retorted, rising to a challenge in her trademark nature. 

Oberyn smirked, sauntering close. Ser Oswell seemed to stiffen near her, hand hovering dangerously close to the hilt of his sword. 

But Oberyn ignored him, leaning close to Lyanna so that he could whisper near her ear, "Because I poisoned them."

She reared back, frowning. "Really?" Her eyes roved over the steel-tipped spears, searching for any sign of alchemy. 

And then Oberyn smiled, his copper complexion brightening considerably. "No! Of course not. But the spear _is_ my weapon of choice."

She raised her brows, turning to admire them again. She couldn't imagine fighting with a spear; the shafts were much too long, the spearheads much too small. Lyanna didn't imagine they could do _much_ damage before a sword finished the wielder to the gut. 

"What's your weapon of choice?" Oberyn then asked, his eyes glittering in the sun. He reminded her so much of a snake then, she half-expected him to shed his skin and sink his poison fangs into her. 

"I'm a girl," Lyanna answered evasively, running her fingers down the wooden shaft of one spear. 

"And?" He probed, leaning casually against the wall of the armory. "I'm sure the calluses on those dainty hands didn't come from sewing all day."

Lyanna smirked. The last time someone had mentioned her ruined palms, it was Brandon joking she'd never win Robert over. In fact, Lyanna's small hands had been roughened by the hilts of her brothers' swords, but mostly Benjen's. She'd never cared though, having invested more stock in being able to hold a blade than a needle. 

"I prefer the sword," she finally said. "Far easier to finish a man off with."

Oberyn smirked. "And do you? Finish many men off, that is..."

Heat flooded her cheeks. "You should watch your tongue before I prove why a sword is superior to your spear."

He seemed pleased suddenly, satisfaction flaring in his gaze. "Forgive my insolence, Your Highness," Oberyn said, sounding anything but sorry. Then, "Would you like to learn how to use a spear?"

Lyanna thought it over. Tongue sharp, she replied, "I don't see the use to be honest. They're long and ungainly with hardly a blade to injure or kill."

"Oh, sweet princess. A spear is one of the most underrated weapons."

"Is that so? I might have said _overrated_. Men do so love to exaggerate," she taunted, quirking a brow. Ser Oswell's discomfort was a tangible thing at her side. 

Oberyn bit a smile back. "Perhaps, Your Highness. Though, I could prove you wrong...?" His offer was as subtle as the heat. 

"Maybe another time," she said airily, drifting away. "I'd rather go see the beaches now."

"Then allow me to escort you," he insisted, "I know the best hidden coves. Tell me, Princess Lyanna, do you like to ride?"

She stopped, and looked over her shoulder, smiling genuinely. "As a matter of fact, I do."

* * *

Lyanna, Oswell, and Oberyn rode along the beaches of the Summer Sea for hours. Oberyn had lent her his own personal steed, a horse as black as his hair, with a tail as red as fire. It had felt powerful between her thighs as it stomped across the shore. 

The Summer Sea was a vivid turquoise, its waves swaying and folding over themselves to the rhythm of an ancient song. The sands were a bright red, and sifted through her fingers as easily as water, small shells and rocks dotting the shore line like a thousand thousand little islands. 

As touted, Oberyn showed her looming dunes where sand had formed humps in the beach as tall as giants, and hidden coves where old starfish had washed up and dried. She found shells as creamy as pearls streaked with amethyst veins, and kicked her feet through schools of fish to send them scattering. All the while, palm trees danced high over them, their leaves waving in the breeze the ocean blew in, gulls squalling overhead. 

She peeled off her little leather sandals, and dug her feet into the sand, letting the wet mush of it squish between her toes. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend like it was snow. 

By the time they made it back to the palace, it was past time for dinner. Her hair was wild and wavy from the saltwater, her skin kissed with color. She felt _alive_ , the blood racing through her as fast as Oberyn's Sand Steed. 

A servant jittered impatiently at the stables as they rode in. "Your Highness!" He called to her manically. He ran over. "Your Highness, Prince Rhaegar has requested you come to the dining hall immediately upon your return."

She looked down at her white dress, the hem dusty with sand and wrinkled from riding and salt. "I'll need to change," she said, dropping down from the horse. 

"If it please you, the prince insisted you come as soon as possible. Dinner was to start an hour ago."

Lyanna groaned, but nodded her acquiescence. She'd all but forgotten about the dinner that night; they were to dine with the entire Martell family to symbolize the union of House Targaryen to Dorne before they returned for King's Landing in a few days. 

Ser Oswell walked impatiently ahead with the servant while Oberyn hung back. "So, Your Highness, did you enjoy our ride today?"

One corner of her mouth lifted. "I did. I didn't expect the horses to handle the sand so well."

"Yes, well they were born to ride the sands." He paused. "And what about the scenery? I imagine that must have been your first time on sand and saltwater."

"It was beautiful," she admitted. "And yes, my very first time on sand. Winterfell isn't exactly beaches and palm trees. It's a cold and unforgiving land, hungry for cutting down soft men." She added the last part just for his ego. 

"No," he agreed, "and yet, our dainty Targaryen princess came from that frozen hellhole."

Her temper flared easily and she cut him a wolfish scowl. "Careful, I might be bound to a dragon, but my blood is Stark. I'm ice made flesh," she warned, "and ice can burn just as easily as fire."


	27. Envy Green and Passion Red

Rhaegar stood as still as a statue of the Stranger, dark and foreboding, a simmering effigy of blood, muscle, and bones. Two warriors in armor of white steel flanked post at his shoulders, wary of what fumed beneath the prince's surface. 

At the window, Rhaegar's eyes were trained on the expanse of the greenery maze below, but he saw nothing, _felt_ nothing - nothing besides his dragon's blood positively boiling with a jealousy so green, it may as well have been wildfire. 

His jaw was clenched hard enough to crack, and his knuckles were white from the force of his fist. His hand itched for Fire, his Valyrian steel sword that glinted the shades of dragonfire; he wanted to angle it across a throat of scales and wrench the head off a black-eyed snake. 

_Prince Oberyn the Viper_ , he thought disdainfully. _The Non-Prince of Bastardy was more like it._

Oberyn Martell was a swaggering, smirking fool that liked to spread his seed across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. With four bastard daughters of his own already, each by a different mother source, the Dornish prince was a pillar of lust. 

And the black-haired, black-eyed snake wished to sink his fangs into Rhaegar's princess next. He couldn't erase the scenes from his mind; Oberyn waltzing into dinner an hour late, Lyanna at his side, beautiful and beach-swept. 

Oberyn had sat across from Lyanna at dinner, his eyes trained on her with a ferocity that was almost frightening. Watching her, goading her, tongue thick with deft entendres and a gaze rich with want. Every word that rolled off his tongue was cloying with coquetry, and rife with sensuality. 

Rhaegar might have been able to brush off another man lusting after his wife; he'd done it before, ignored the lustful looks from those in the capital that watched after his little Northern girl. Her rare, wild beauty begged for attention. 

But one thing kept him from sweeping this particular instance under the rug. Where usually Lyanna was oblivious to the male gaze, she seemed overly aware of Oberyn's attentions. And she matched him word for word, their banter full of teeth and cheek, more humoring than Rhaegar had ever seen her. 

It had made the entire world fall away, shatter into a cloud of dust. All Rhaegar saw was his gorgeous, brilliant wife laughing and japing with another man, and it _bothered_ him. It had filled him with a madness akin to his father's, something deep and dark that both frightened and thrilled him. 

He'd never experienced anything so _intoxicatingly_ vengeful before, and he wanted to wield it for its full power. 

The knock at his door was louder than a clap of thunder, and the air in the room seemed to jump. Rhaegar waved his hand in permission, and Oswell opened the door. 

In the height of the entrance stood Princess Elia, still wearing the wavy silk gown from dinner. Her black hair was unbound and curling, the gold of her bracelets glittering in the candlelight. 

"My prince," she intoned with a significant smile reminiscent of a snake about to devour a mouse. The entire dinner, she'd been overly attentive, laughing and smiling and welcoming, her eyes always trailing over him suggestively though no one else besides himself seemed to notice. 

"Princess Elia," he said in low surprise. 

She smirked and swayed inside. "I was coming to see if you would grace me with a walk through the Gardens. They're truly magnificent at night."

Rhaegar swallowed a deep breath. The envy beneath his skin burned with the heat of a dragon's breath and he was choking on it. The longer he stood still, swimming in his anger, the more his ire rose, higher and higher until it stood as tall as the Titan of Braavos. 

"Of course," he allowed, unclenching his jaw with a crack. He felt like a puppet with its strings cut, disjointed and off-kilter as they made their way outside. 

He released Oswell and Arthur from their duties and followed Elia down the stone staircase and out into the garden. The night air was heavy and hot, spiced with a salt breeze carried in from the Summer Sea. 

A million and one tea lights were lit along the pathway, each one sitting in its own glass jar. It had the illusion of a blanket of fireflies, filling the darkness with an amber glow. 

"Your visit to Dorne has been hectic," Elia began, smiling over at him. The candlelight played shadows over her face. "I've been wishing to speak with you."

"We've spoken," he pointed out unhelpfully. His mind was split in two: trying to engage with Elia and thinking on the laughs Lyanna afforded Oberyn. 

"Alone," she clarified. The look she gave him was heavy, and he understood where things were going. 

His mouth formed a silent O, and the memory of her proposition from Harrenhal rushed back to him. Lips and tongue and proffers of passion. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable. 

"Have you forgotten me so easily, Your Highness?" She asked in a low voice. Her dark eyes were full of jest and insult. 

He rushed to rectify the tense air. "No, of course not. I just-" He broke off, unsure of where to steer the conversation. 

"I thought that we had the start of something at the tourney," she admitted, going to sit on a bench beneath a low-hanging orange tree. "I kissed your mouth and you mine. I offered my love to you, even though you were promised to another."

The thought of Oberyn fled his mind and only Lyanna was left. "I would not dishonor you or my wife with an affair." He sat on the opposite side of the bench, a respectful distance between them. 

"It would be no dishonor to me," she said boldly. "Dorne is full of paramours and the offspring of their passions. As for your wife...is there any love lost between the two of you?"

He had no answer for her. What more could he say? Pretend that there was no space blocking their marriage? Spin the tale of his promised ice, his three children that which would emerge from his wife's womb? No, somehow he doubted Elia would appreciate that. 

"I see a distance between you and your princess. Not every marriage breeds passion or love, my prince. You have to take love where you can find it. And I am right here."

Rhaegar felt breathless and riddled with doubts. Was Elia right? Would there ever be anything but barbs between him and Lyanna, or were they destined for cold sheets for the rest of their days? 

Elia slid closer to him, so close he could see his face reflected in the glassy pools of her eyes. "Tell me honestly, did you feel nothing for me in those days at Harrenhal?"

He couldn't deny that. At first, hadn't he entertained the thought of Elia as a Targaryen princess, as a gracious addition to the royal family? He'd readily accepted her kisses, only hesitating once Lyanna had been betrothed to him. 

"You are Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon," she breathed, "and you deserve fire to warm your blood." Her breath fanned over his face. 

"Rhaegar?"

His heart stopped and he whipped his head around so quickly, his neck snapped. Lyanna's salt-swept hair ruffled in the warm breeze, and her face was narrowed in confused suspicion. Her pale arms were crossed over her chest, the skirts of her gown snapping like a whip. 

He jerked away from Elia immediately and got to his feet, bogged down by inexplicable guilt. "Lyanna," he murmured, imploring her with his eyes. For what, he didn't know. "What are you doing out here?" He didn't like that his words came out breathy and nervous, like he was deflecting from some misdeed. 

Lyanna took two steps back. "I was just walking back from telling Viserys a bedtime story." Three more steps back. 

"We were just taking a walk," he blurted out, keenly aware that they had been sitting together and were far too close for any semblance of innocence. 

Lyanna quirked a brow, unimpressed. "I'm going to bed now. Enjoy the rest of your night." And then she turned and walked off.

Adrenaline kicked in and Rhaegar chased after her without a moment's thought. The path was darker now and more difficult to see whilst running, but Rhaegar easily caught up to Lyanna before she was able to climb the stairs to her chambers. 

He caught her by the arm and yanked her back. She was scowling deeply and one of the nearby fire pits reflected dangerously in her eyes, orange flames on thundercloud disks. 

"Yes?" She hissed, jerking her arm out of his grip. Up close he could see how angry she was and it filled him with an odd satisfaction. 

"I- I just wanted...to tell you good night," he stuttered. 

She raised her brows. "Good night then." She went to leave but he wrapped his hand around her elbow, gently so as not to hurt her. 

"Lyanna," he murmured. She looked back at him. "Nothing happened."

She understood the silent _"with Princess Elia..."_

"You do not owe me any explanations," she assured him with a raised chin and blazing eyes. "I'm only your wife."

"Yes!" He declared. "You are my wife, and I swear I did nothing to sully our vows."

She studied his face, conflicting, foreign emotions battling for her expression. "It's not my business if you did." 

Rhaegar released a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Lyanna..." For some reason, it stung to hear her say that, as if she would be unaffected by his affairs. But he knew her well enough to realize nothing would come of repeating himself or probing her. Instead, he asked, "May I walk you to your room?"

She clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes, and for a moment, he thought she would refuse him. But then, she begrudgingly gave him a nod. He was relieved at his small victory and stepped away to walk by her side as they climbed the stairs. 

The halls were silent save for the whistling wind skating against the stone. The torches embedded in the wall sconces flickered and danced, casting serpentine shadows over the floors. 

Lyanna went to her door, preparing to push through, when Rhaegar said, "Wait."

She paused where she was and looked over her shoulder but otherwise made no move. He ran his teeth over his bottom lip, suddenly tense with nerves and indecision. He didn't know what her stance would be on his affection, but he wanted to try anyway. Steeling himself, he stepped forward and slowly bent to press a searing kiss against the slope of her cheekbone. 

"Good night, Lyanna," he murmured. _Snakes are nothing to wolves and dragons._


	28. The Lone Wolf

Her paws padded silently through the wet forest, sinking into green and dirt, rocks and snow. The smell of meat was strong on the horizon, and it made her jowls salivate. Her fangs dripped with hunger, and her nose picked up the scent of a deer nearby. 

She ran quickly, her senses guiding her for the kill. The night was deep and dark, a cold wind blowing over her spine. A woodpecker pecked incessantly somewhere above, itching at her ears. 

Irritated, she stopped and howled up to the sky, her cries echoing through the wood. But if anything, it made the pecks even louder, even more frequent. Low in her throat, she growled. Muffled, she heard a human voice calling out. 

She looked around, sniffing the air, but all she smelled was the earth and the deer, nothing human around. The woodpecker was still at it, like a hammer on steel. More knocking. _Knock, knock, knock, knock._

Lyanna sucked in a strangled breath and sat up straight in bed. Harsh golden light filtered in through the window, blinding her as she came to consciousness. She was no longer in a Northern forest, but in a fluffy featherbed far South. 

At the door, someone knocked repeatedly, their knuckles battering the wood. She shook her head, dizzy from the wolf dream. "Come in!"

The door swung open and a servant appeared, curtsying. "Your Highness, Princess Elia sent me to invite you to break your fast with her this morning."

A black cloud immediately settled over Lyanna's heart. Instantly a picture of the copper-skinned princess mere inches from her silver husband appeared in her mind; the same red blurred her vision now as it did when she first happened upon them. 

The pure disrespect had sent her reeling. She'd found herself wondering if all the royal Dornish were such scheming little snakes; at least Doran had seemed unassuming and kind, if nothing else. But Elia and Oberyn were two sides of the same coin, disrespectful and cutting. 

And despite Rhaegar's assurances, she found herself wondering if something _had_ happened between him and the Dornish princess. He'd looked too guilty for absolutely nothing to have happened, though Rhaegar didn't strike her as a Robert Baratheon type. 

Lyanna would have loved nothing more than to refuse Elia's offer and seek Viserys' company instead on their final day in Dorne. But one thing kept her from doing so: she wouldn't give Elia Martell the satisfaction of thinking she'd sent the wolf running with its tail between its legs. 

"Tell Princess Elia I accept," she ordered, voice scratchy as if she'd howled for hours. 

The servant nodded, retreating. "I will be back in an hour to retrieve you, Your Highness."

Left alone, Lyanna padded out of bed, dropping her robe to the floor. The morning heat sent a flush over her skin, like the kiss of hot bath water on her naked body. 

She dressed herself in a gown of lovely yellow which splayed like a morning star beneath her dark hair. She itched to don her crown of iron thorns and sapphire roses, just to flaunt an actual crown to the Dornish princess, but she ultimately decided against it. 

She'd have to face Rhaegar to retrieve it, and even after the burning imprint of his lips on her cheek had faded the night before, she couldn't get him out of her head until wolves and fangs filled her sleep. 

True to word, the maidservant returned within an hour, and escorted her to another wing of the palace where the sun seemed to shine its brightest. The scent of oranges was strong and hit her like a headache. 

A small table of food was set up on an open terrace. Sat in one of the three chairs was Princess Elia, glowing in a thin gown of indigo silk, a shade eerily close to Rhaegar's eyes in the light. A thin gold chain sat on the crown of her black hair, which was curly and oiled. 

Beside her was Ser Arthur's sister, of an age with Elia, with dark hair and eyes like two chips of amethyst. Her beauty seemed to have been stolen by a sickness, her pallor green and skin lined. 

Princess Elia Martell put on the brightest smile she could muster and stood as Lyanna approached. "Your Highness!" She chirped. "I am so happy you could come."

Lyanna raised her brows. "I could think of nothing better with which to bide my time." She took the empty seat to Elia's right, immediately drinking from her glass of wine; it was sour and tart and made her tongue sting. 

"I am Ashara Dayne of Starfall," Ashara introduced herself weakly, sitting down from her curtsy. "I've not had the pleasure of meeting you personally, Your Highness, though I do know your brother."

The mention of her family brightened Lyanna's dark mood. "Really?" She asked quickly, leaning forward so as to ignore Elia's presence. "Which one?"

"Brandon," Ashara smiled. 

Lyanna knew that smile, had seen it on Barbrey Dustin's face when the girl came to visit Winterfell with her father; it was a smile that spoke of both intimacy and disappointment. 

"We met at the tourney of Harrenhal," explained Ashara. 

"Ah," Lyanna hummed. Catelyn Tully had also been at Harrenhal, and even Brandon wasn't so stupid to dishonor his betrothal with Catelyn _right there_. No, Ashara's smile must have been borne of fondness, just as most were fond of Brandon. 

"Today is your last day in Dorne, is that correct?" Elia cut in, biting into an orange slice. The juice burst onto her thin lips, streaming down her chin. 

Lyanna swept her eyes over begrudgingly. "Yes, that's correct. Rhaegar wants to leave as soon as day breaks." At the mention of the prince, Elia's face both softened and hardened. 

Before she could retort though, Ashara gasped, fitting a hand over her mouth. Her purple eyes were wide in alarm, and shining with tears. Her other hand was clutched over her stomach, as if in pain. 

"Are you alright?" Elia asked, reaching over the table. 

It was a few long moments before Ashara nodded, finally dropping her hand. Her face was sickly and gaunt, and she seemed on the verge of vomiting. "I'm fine," she whispered. 

"You're sure?" Elia insisted. 

Ashara nodded, flashing her eyes up. "I do apologize, Your Highness," she said to Lyanna quietly. "I've been sick now for weeks."

"Weeks?" Lyanna repeated skeptically. That explained her sickly green color and the tiredness that seemed to live in her skin. 

"Yes," Ashara confirmed. "I can't seem to keep food down any more." She sighed deeply. "I cannot eat, I sleep constantly, and I'm ill every day."

At Winterfell, one of the maidservants had come down with the same sickness; they called it _the cook's seed_. Without thinking, Lyanna blurted carelessly, "Maybe you're pregnant."

Though Ashara's face had been downturned, Lyanna spotted the moment her body froze and her eyes lifted the tiniest bit. There seemed to be a dangerous dawning in the depths of her purple eyes, like a horrible realization had just shattered her world. 

With more strength than Lyanna had yet witnessed from the woman, Ashara stood and pushed back her chair. "Excuse me please." And then she ran off, scurrying like hell itself was on her heels. 

Elia stuttered an excuse for her friend. "She's probably getting sick again." She grimaced. "Yes, she's...just sick."

Lyanna cleared her throat awkwardly, putting Ashara Dayne out of her mind; it was not her business who Lady Dayne bedded down with and whose bastard she likely carried. 

Instead she focused on stabbing her eggs with the prongs of her fork, tearing them to shreds. In Ashara's absence, there was only silence. Elia had likely assumed Lyanna would not have come, too humiliated or angry or both, and as such not prepared for actual hosting. 

In truth, the longer Lyanna sat there with the Dornish princess, the more powerful her anger from the previous night returned and grew. She let it fester in her chest like some old battle wound, aching and sore, until finally it became too much to just sit there and not _say_ anything. 

"So," Lyanna began, "about last night..."

Elia's dark eyes flashed up immediately. Discomfort was clear on her face, but there was a challenge there as well, as if she had some claim to Rhaegar Targaryen to justify her actions. 

"You seemed very close to my husband," Lyanna noted nonchalantly, although she felt her mouth water, just like in her wolf dreams right before a fresh kill. 

"Rhaegar and I are friends," Elia returned lightly. 

"Friends," Lyanna repeated. How in so little time could they have forged such a...close friendship when Rhaegar was constantly in meetings with Prince Doran, or entertaining Viserys?

"We got to know each other at Harrenhal." Though it was delivered airily, Elia seemed positively loaded, like a crossbow on a hunt. 

"Isn't Harrenhal just the breeding ground for new friendships?" Lyanna bit out sarcastically, throwing back some wine. 

Elia laughed. "Oh, Princess, you are too funny. Though I do admit, the lines were blurred a bit at the tourney. It's hard to know what is friendship and what is not anymore."

Lyanna didn't want to rise to the bait, she truly didn't. But impulse control, like Brandon, was not her forte, and her wolf's blood sang for the truth. "Oh?"

"Yes," Elia sighed, drinking from her cup. "I confess I thought that _I_ would be the one leaving that tourney betrothed to Rhaegar. He certainly made it seem that was the case."

Hearing his name so casually from her lips made Lyanna want to tear into her bronze throat, to sip her lifeblood like it was Dornish red. "And what, pray tell, did he do to have given you that idea?"

Elia snorted gently. "I may look frail, Princess Lyanna, but I still have passion in my blood. And it seems that your husband does as well. Though I probably don't have to tell _you_ that."

Lyanna's jaw popped like a break when she ground her teeth together. She could feel blood where her nails dug into her palms, and sweat from her adrenaline running down her collarbone. "What exactly are you trying to imply?"

Elia adopted a look of faux remorse, as she brought a hand to her mouth in a gesture of shock. "Oh, you didn't know? I'm so embarrassed. I thought Rhaegar would have told you."

Lyanna narrowed her eyes. "Told me what?"

Elia shook her head. "No, it's not my place. I don't want to cause problems in your marriage."

Before she could help it, Lyanna asked, "Don't you?"

Some steel came alive in Elia's expression. "Pardon me, Your Highness?"

"You're quite transparent, Elia Martell. I see your game, but see no end for you but disappointment and shame." The disrespect chipped away at any civility Lyanna had had coming in, and had all but disappeared the longer she was in Elia's presence. 

"Shame," Elia repeated thoughtfully. "Here in Dorne, we do not frown or judge on affairs of the heart. Here, Prince Rhaegar may seek what he likes without disapproval."

"And are you what he seeks?" He'd convinced her well enough Elia was not an interest, or at least a threat. Lyanna wondered if there was a glaring difference she'd missed. 

Elia shrugged. "Perhaps. Even the sun would not refuse the dragon. Fire for fire, after all."

"The sun," Lyanna laughed. _A snake is more like it; perhaps the Martells should change their sigil._

"Yes," Elia agreed stonily. "It's always good to remember who is what in these kingdoms. It can be so very hard to remember."

"Oh, I remember," Lyanna murmured lowly, pushing back from the table. "And so should you. I am a wolf of the North and a Stark of Winterfell, a descendant of the Kings of Winter, and blood of the First Men." She stood and looked down upon the other woman. 

Elia grinned up at her with a reptilian smile. "And I am the sun, Princess, fire made flesh. Keep that in mind when your dragon gets cold."

"Keep _this_ in mind," Lyanna said, bending over the table before she walked away. "Even fire dies when the ice wind blows." She lifted her chin. "And wolves do not howl at the sun."


	29. Shadows at Sea

The night sky was a velvet blanket crushed with crystal stars and a silver-crusted moon. The waves were the rocking arms of a mother, gently swaying the ship _Dragon's Wing_ through the sea. The war galley sailed for King's Landing, having left Dorne at its rear several days past. 

The wind brushed Lyanna's hair back as she crept to her cabin, the salt in the air heavy on her skin. A few sailors gave her passing glances as she walked on, but she persisted, climbing down the stairs to the private cabins. 

At her room, Ser Lewyn waited, all stony silence in snowy armor. His dark face was utterly devoid of emotion, and it sent a shiver down her that had nothing to do with the wind.

Sliding past him, she pushed open her door, its creaking lost in the shush of the sea, and slipped inside. The darkness of her room was slashed by stripes of moonlight filtering in through the two small circle windows set into the wall. 

But where her bed was sat a deeper patch of shadow, long and lean and hunched over. 

Lyanna gasped, jumping back so that her back slammed against the door. Rhaegar got to his feet, his full height of six feet and some odd inches a towering darkness over her. There was an energy to him that was tangible, radiating off him in waves as dark as the Blackwater and as powerful as a gust of high wind. 

"What are you doing here?" She demanded in a thin voice. She didn't believe he'd hurt her, but her hand closed around an unlit candlestick all the same. 

"You've been avoiding me." His voice was deep and inexplicably husky, and it sent sharp tingles through her. Two heavy steps later, and he was close enough that half of his face was bathed in silver, a mere foot away from her. 

In truth, she _had_ been avoiding him. Ever since Princess Elia's taunting confession, Lyanna had made it her life's mission to keep a distance from her husband. Even more so than usual. 

She was confused and angry, and felt entirely disrespected. Lyanna felt _lied to_ ; he'd done a good job at convincing her nothing had happened with Elia, and when the tables turned, the Dornish woman had an entirely different story. 

Irritated, she made to step around him, but one strong arm shot out; his right arm was an immovable barrier at her side. Lyanna clenched her jaw and went to her right, but his left arm came quickly, and then she was in a prison cell with four walls: his chest before her, his arms on either side of her head, and the door at her back. 

"Why have you been avoiding me?" He asked quietly, dangerously. She felt a thrill go through her. 

In the entirety of her marriage, Rhaegar Targaryen had been neutral, never unkind nor forward. He was a gentle man, and seemed no more a danger than Ned Stark a direwolf. 

But _this_ Rhaegar, cornering her in the dark of her room... _he_ was a dragon, all silver scales and purple eyes and sleek limbs. If she touched his skin, she was sure she would melt. 

"I haven't," she lied. 

"You're lying," he accused, leaning closer, intoxicating her with that heady scent of his. She briefly wondered if he did that on purpose, or if he was entirely unaware of his own seductions. 

Lyanna lifted her chin, wolf's blood howling out for justice. How dare he accuse her of anything, when all he cared about was putting his prick in that little Dornish tart. 

"Oh, yeah?" She murmured darkly. "Prove it."

Rhaegar studied her for so long she was scared they would petrify, the two of them frozen forever in time for all to admire. But eventually, his eyes flicked down and he took one hand off the door and trailed a long finger down the curve of her jaw. Her belly quivered. 

"Lyanna," he whispered, voice suddenly sad. He tilted his head, roving those purple eyes over her. "Tell me why."

A shiver ripped through her, and she closed her teeth over her bottom lip. Her trademark stubbornness reared its head, but that part of her that was too curious for her own good was winning out. She wanted to know, _had_ to have answers. 

"Elia," was all she said. 

Rhaegar frowned instantly. "I told you that nothing happened."

She challenged instantly, "No? Not even at Harrenhal?"

Awareness slipped into his eyes, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. "She mentioned the tourney?"

Lyanna nodded, dizzy with his scent surrounding her. Rhaegar withdrew his arms and went to sit on the edge of her bed, roughly combing a hand through his hair. 

Lyanna stayed at the door, watching him. He sat hunched over, burdened by her admission. Frustration seeped out of his every pore, as well as something else, something foreign. 

"She kissed me," he said suddenly, raising his face to her. He looked utterly uncomfortable. "We kissed several times at Harrenhal, in fact."

Lyanna waited, pushing down the ugly blackness settling in her heart. They may have been married by law, but she had no claim to his heart, to his desires. 

"She also..." He swallowed. "Offered herself to me as a mistress."

Her teeth ground together so hard she was sure they would become dust. Lyanna's fingers itched to reach out across the sea and wrap around Elia's bronze throat. She wondered how long fire could burn when presented with true winter...

"Twice she offered," he admitted. "Once at Harrenhal and then again at the Water Gardens. But I promise," he said with strong conviction, "I never accepted."

She was quick to retort, "And did you _deny_ her?"

Rhaegar's face fell, and that was answer enough. 

"Go to bed," she sighed. Her mind felt muddled. The disrespect was making her see green and she wanted nothing more than to stew in her upset. Alone. 

His hand reached out for hers and he tugged her down to the bed where she landed clumsily at his side. He grasped the point of her chin between his pointer finger and thumb, turning her face toward his; they were so close, she tasted his breath on her mouth. 

"I know you didn't choose me, and I know I didn't choose you," he said quietly, "but we are bound together for life. You are mine, as I am yours for the rest of our days."

Something akin to nausea swam in her belly. She looked into his eyes, caught there. Just barely a shred of indigo was seen through the dark but it was enough to remind her of his heritage, of the strange blood that ran through him. 

Oh, he was beautiful. Though usually neutral to his presence, Lyanna enjoyed looking at him. There was just something so magnificent about Rhaegar, and she understood why so many lost their eyes to him. 

His hair was a tumble of liquid silver and his skin was unblemished milk glass, his eyes like glinting black amethysts, a deep true purple by daylight. She thought back to their wedding day, when his every feature had been lit by the crystal crown of the High Septon. 

Maggy the Frog had been right; almost every woman in that sept cursed her in envy when she wed her prince, no doubt about it. 

And he was hers. 

Rhaegar was watching her as well, his eyes like hooks in her skin, tugging and pulling at her until she was flayed open for the viewing. 

"You," he murmured, "are by and far the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my entire life." His words were delivered with the mightiest of faith and it made her feel hot beneath her skin. 

She blinked, swallowed, stuttered a breath. It was odd hearing that come from him, this silver dragon beloved by so many. His hook eyes scraped down to her mouth for a beat, then flicked back up so that he stared at her beneath a lowered brow. 

Lyanna felt herself move forward unconsciously, as if the boat's sway moved her there. Rhaegar cocked his head, painting her face with his dragon's stare. He bent forward so slowly, it was almost as if he wasn't moving at all. 

But he was. He didn't have to move far for his lips to find her skin, _just_ outside the corner of her mouth like the day of their wedding. Except this time it was Rhaegar who chose to not kiss her mouth. 

It stung where he kissed her, small tendrils of pleasure clawing through her cheek. She wanted to scratch at her skin, root out that feeling he put inside of her. 

Without warning, she pulled away, scared of the sudden red _want_ inside of her. His eyes popped open, glassy and dazed. His lips were parted and soft like the inside of a new winter rose. He rose to his feet shakily and blinked down at her, frozen for half a moment. 

"Sweet dreams, Lyanna," he breathed suddenly, running his tongue over his lips before turning to the door. 

And when he walked away, she almost reached after him.


	30. A Rutting Pair

King's Landing was much as Lyanna remembered it; crowded even by night, muggy, and stinking of fish and feces and filth. The water of the bay lapped hungrily at the port as they left the war galley behind, black waves that fed on ships and men alike. 

The Red Keep was a sprawling red spider with seven legs, sitting atop Aegon's High Hill. Inside it was bleached pale stone, with dancing shadows from flaming torches like men on fire. 

Rhaegar's gaze was a tangible thing on her skin, filling Lyanna with a seeping warmth. She had a quick flash of his lips on her cheek in her mind, and could vividly recall the tingle he'd left on her skin - so much so, the phantom tingle tickled her even at the memory. 

She didn't meet his eyes as she veered off to the Maidenvault, though as soon as his back was turned, she spared a look. Her heart thrummed oddly as he marched toward Maegor's with an unconscious Viserys in his arms. Around them, the castle was sleepy quiet, red and black-garbed soldiers milling about in hushed voices. 

At the Maidenvault, a crawl of guards were stationed outside the giant iron-and-wooden doors that led inside. However, instead of the typical red and black of Targaryen, these guards wore armor of crimson and gold, their helms decorated with the dancing golden lions of House Lannister. 

"Cersei Lannister has come to Court," Ser Oswell murmured the reminder near her ear before she could even ask. 

Their cloaks looked like washes of blood down their shoulders, and their lion clasps glinted as if they growled. The Red Cloaks stepped aside for her and her Kingsguard, and Oswell cranked open one of the massive doors. 

Inside, the first hallway was dim except for one small torch that was sconced outside one of the previously unused chambers in the Maidenvault. Stationed there was another stranger guard, though unlike the Red Cloaks outside, this man was garbed in plain armor. 

He was a giant, though young, reaching well over six and a half feet tall, with long hair and a grim expression. The torch dancing fire near his ear played a sheen off the scarred ruin that was the left side of his face. 

Lyanna shivered and immediately shifted her eyes down, a cold fear draining through her veins. The clang of Ser Oswell's armor at her back was a welcome sound, comforting even. 

When they reached her chambers, Lyanna pushed inside quietly. Servants had already made up her room; the fireplace roaring red flames, the bed turned down, and sleeping clothes set out. 

"I'll be right outside," Ser Oswell promised. Rhaegar had insisted a Kingsguard stay outside her door every night until the Lannister host had left the Keep. 

Lyanna nodded and shut the door, enveloped in the warm light of her chambers. She immediately stripped off her traveling clothes and climbed into bed, reveling in the cool sheets against her skin.

That night, she slept fitfully, dreaming fever dreams that morphed from one scene into another with hot fluidity. She dreamt of hot desert suns glaring down on her, burning her alive as she screamed and screamed. 

She dreamed of a mighty green-scaled dragon flying overhead, breathing flames of red and yellow and jade. His fiery breath made her strong, and together they knocked the sun from the sky. 

In her dreams, she was a great white wolf with shining red ruby eyes, prowling a vast expanse of frozen tundra. Dead things made of ice and snow and nightmares walked carefully over the packed earth, their bright blue eyes as sharp as their crystal swords. 

A boy with dark hair and a sword like red flames slayed them left and right, shattering the ice monsters as if they were glass. Two others were with him, both with hair of silver, and wielding swords of sharp steel: one like black fire, and the other a dark sister to it. 

Suddenly time stopped, and the three children turned to stare at her. The dark-haired boy had eyes like black amethysts, so dark they looked grey-black, but when the sun caught them, they were a deep shade of magnificent blue-purple. 

Of the two silver children, one had eyes like violet petals, soft and pastel. The other had a gaze of molten silver, eyes so light grey they seemed to glow as bright as Rhaegar's hair. 

And when they opened their mouths to speak, the dark boy and the two silvers, only fire emerged, as bright and green as a wild dragon's flame. 

Lyanna sat up in bed, struggling for breath as she regained consciousness to reality. Her fire had died sometime in the night so only blackness was left, crowding her with its unknown. She frowned, frightened tears pricking at her eyes. 

She scrambled out of bed and grabbed at her favorite Winterfell cloak, dark blue wool and brown fur trim that still held traces of the North. It swung over her shoulders easily, and she hugged the sides to her chest before going to wrench open her door. 

Ser Oswell was a beacon of white outside her room. "Princess, are you alright?"

"Yes," she mumbled, definitively _not_ alright. The fear was palpable in her. Her mind's eye was still bright with her dreams, of suns and snows and dragons and a dark boy. "I'm going for a walk."

"A walk," Oswell repeated doubtfully. "Princess, it is the middle of the night."

Lyanna sighed deeply. "I just wa-" She stopped. What she wanted was Rhaegar. For some intense, inexplicable reason, she desired Rhaegar's presence, to bury her face in his silver hair and be smothered in his scent. 

Instead she said, "I do not feel well, and I would like to walk it off. Alone." When Oswell continued to frown, she added, "I'll make it quick."

Oswell thought for a long moment before finally nodding. "Quickly?" He asked. 

"Just a few minutes," she promised, slipping out of her room. 

The hallway was as dark as it had ever been, the torch outside Cersei Lannister's chambers burnt out. The guard with the scarred face was no longer there, so the hall was empty save for Ser Oswell. 

Outside the Maidenvault, there were few guards, one in Lannister colors and a handful in Targaryen. Lyanna strode away from their dark eyes, and toward the forgotten corridors near her secret cellar. 

Her every footstep echoed a whisper off the pale stone walls, and the torches danced with their shadows. The further she walked, the freer her breathing came until she finally felt like the weight of her dream had been lifted. 

She rested her head against the stone for a few minutes, soaking in the blissful silence, before deciding to turn back. But just as she did, there was a noise, a breathy gasp of a name. 

Lyanna froze, looking on to where the corridor split in two. And there it was again, another gasp, then a low, long moan. Lyanna's eyes widened, listening. She contemplated just going back to the Maidenvault, laying in the safety of her bed till the sun came up. 

That was, until a name was called out clear as a bell. Lyanna's heart was beating furiously as she crept toward the sound. It seemed to emanate from the room at the end, whose door was almost shut but for a small two-inch crack where a thin shaft of light spilled across the floor. 

Lyanna's feet were quieter than mice as she ghosted toward the room, her approach overpowered by the chorus of gasps and moans and grunts. Her fingers curled slowly against the wall, and she bent her head to see through the doorway's crack. 

Inside the room was bare, long forgotten and unused. On the floor, three fat candles were shining light. A few feet away, Ser Jaime Lannister was clad in only a thin tunic, his bare hips shifting almost violently against the backside of a woman - a woman on all fours like a dog, her head down and golden hair spilling all over the stone floor. 

Terrible realization dawned as Lyanna took in the two lions rutting together. Cersei Lannister. Vomit rose to Lyanna's throat, threatening to spill as the golden twins moved together in passion. 

Lyanna went to leave, but the sight of her movement caught Ser Jaime's eye. Cersei Lannister was oblivious, still moaning as her brother took her from behind, but Jaime looked Lyanna right in the face, his eyes like two dark emeralds, glinting with shock and anger and danger. 

Without another second's hesitation, Lyanna bolted from sight, making for the Maidenvault. She raced down the dark, twisting hallways, feet pounding over stone to the time of her heartbeats. 

But it was the sounds of pursuit behind her that made Lyanna's legs pump faster. Her skin was crawling at Jaime's presence at her back, his lion's speed an even match for her wolf's paws. 

She itched to look behind her, to see how close he was, but she pressed on, knowing that if she slowed just a bit, it could mean something bad for her. She kept waiting for lion's claws to wrap around her arm, to wrench her back and skin her head to heel, but it never came. 

Relief had never been so sweet as when she caught sight of Ser Oswell waiting outside the Maidenvault. He took in her breathy arrival with a confused grin, and opened the door chivalrously. His eyes did not shift behind her, indicating Ser Jaime had given up his chase of her. 

She tried to regain her breath as Oswell escorted her back to her room, heart and mind twisting sickeningly as she remembered the way the twins' curling hair burned the same golden color. 

This time when she went to enter her room, she stopped and turned. "You'll be out here all night?"

Oswell frowned slightly. "All night." He paused. "Did your walk help?"

She nodded, plastering an unconvincing smile on her face. "It did. Good night, Ser Oswell."

"And you, Princess."

When Lyanna tucked back into her bed, she fell asleep instantly once more despite the scene of incest in her thoughts, her mind slipping back into a feverish colored dream. Though this time there were no suns or dragons or snow. This time she dreamt of a pride of hunting lions, all with silver manes and purple eyes, feeding on stag and wolf and trout alike. Except for one, one lion who was the biggest of them all, with golden fur and a stare like emeralds. 

Lyanna woke as exhausted as when she went to rest, the high sun glaring fiercely down on her. Her dreams had kept her sleeping until midday, and the heat rattled fiercely through the air. She climbed out of her bed, dressing in a simple gown of grey before lifting the latch on her door and wrenching it open. 

Her heart flew to her throat and she immediately went to slam her door closed, but a white-gauntleted hand stopped her. Ser Jaime was resplendent in white steel, his golden curls spilling over his collar and his cat-green eyes glittering. 

"Good morning, Princess."


	31. Sword for Silence

Jaime had never seen the little she-wolf look so frightened before; her chin was always held high, obstinate and strong, but never weak, no. Until now, with his hand holding open her chamber door, ensuring she could neither run nor hide. 

"Good morning, Princess," he said cat-quiet, watching the way a million and one thoughts played through her eyes. They were pretty eyes, he realized, clear and grey like pewter finery. 

"Ser Jaime," she returned hesitantly. She clenched her jaw, and defiantly met his eyes. Her shackles had risen, and her fangs were coming out. 

He still remembered the look on her face when it had appeared through the crack of the door in the forgotten wing of the Keep last night, shocked and repulsed at the sight of the golden twins together. 

As if the silver prince wasn't a product of his own parents' incest. 

Then again, Princess Lyanna did not seem so fond of Prince Rhaegar as every other maid and lady in the Seven Kingdoms were, Cersei included. Hells, the princess still lived within the Maidenvault instead of Maegor's where her princely husband could have easier access to her. 

And judging by the distinct flat of Lyanna's stomach, he doubted Rhaegar was making much use of her. 

"I think we should have a talk, Your Highness," he murmured, stepping closer. The inside of her chambers smelled sharp like apples, sweet and lovely, not so different than Cersei. Jaime shook off the thought. 

"No," she said, "I don't think we do. Ser Oswell should be waiting for me." She made to leave, but Jaime stepped in front of her. Lyanna frowned, looking up at him; she was a very pretty girl, almost as beautiful as Cersei, although Jaime thought no one held a candle to his twin except for himself. 

"Ser Oswell," he said, "is with your prince. I offered to watch your chambers until you woke."

The color drained from Lyanna's face and she finally seemed to become aware of the golden-hilted sword at Jaime's hip, shining and deadly-sharp. Her clear grey eyes swiped left, then right, and quick as a snake, Lyanna lunged away and picked up a rusted kitchen knife long forgotten. 

Jaime almost smiled at her moxie. If he weren't so concerned about what she'd seen, he might have even admired her, in that way he admired Cersei's strength. 

"Put that down," he said to her. 

Her eyes flicked down to his sword. "No, I don't think so."

He smirked. "A little butter knife won't be able to pierce Kingsguard armor."

She smiled sarcastically. "No, but it sure can poke out one of those pretty green eyes."

He ignored the compliment, and cast his eyes down in a look of faux innocence. Then, as soon as her hand dropped an inch, Lyanna's guard eased just a bit, he struck. His hand swiped out, seizing her wrist so that she dropped the knife immediately; before she could take her other hand to him, he grabbed that one too, destabilizing her. 

She struggled hard, growling and fighting against him. She was skin and bones, but not frail. Her shouts turned to screams and Jaime was forced to take one hand to cover her mouth, but as soon as he did, her freed hand went to his golden hair, yanking terribly. 

"Ah," he groaned, bringing her spine close to his chest. "Stop, stop!" He might have worried for their volume if he didn't know the Maidenvault was completely empty; Ser Oswell was gone, and Cersei as well, going to pay her respects to Queen Rhaella. 

He'd only been so lucky that Cersei hadn't seen Lyanna the night before; as soon as Jaime had seen the peeping princess, he'd pulled out of Cersei and ran to go after her. But then Lyanna had reached safety before Jaime could catch her and he'd had to return to Cersei feigning ignorance, pretending he'd only seen shadow play from the candles rather than an actual person. 

It was the first secret he'd ever kept from Cersei, lying about them not being caught and not naming Lyanna. 

He wasn't even sure why he did it. It wasn't as if he held any allegiance to the little wolf girl, or her family. He respected the prince certainly, but to Lyanna he had no loyalty besides what his Kingsguard vows demanded of him. 

"Stop!" He yelled a third time when her fingers curled into a thick lock of his hair. "Quit struggling and I'll let you go." At this, she struggled harder, wiggling against him, her apple-scented hair smothering him. 

"You're going to hurt me!" She shouted, fear quivering in her voice. 

"I won't," he promised, "but you have to stop screaming and fighting me!" She was squirming like a fish out of water in his arms, but she was starting to still or tire or whatever else, until finally she quit completely. 

Jaime hesitantly removed his arms from her and took a step back, careful of claws. Lyanna hurriedly bent to swipe her butter knife, and swiveled, holding it out. If anything, his grabbing of her had made Lyanna stronger and angrier, like a hornet. 

Jaime met her eyes boldly. "You saw me with my sister."

"Your _lover_ you mean," she spat like a viper. 

Jaime clenched his jaw. He didn't want to hurt the princess, quite the opposite actually. Ser Arthur Dayne, Jaime's hero, wouldn't kill a young girl - but Arthur Dayne wouldn't be fucking his sister either. But what choice did Jaime have? Allow Lyanna to spread word of his and Cersei's trysts, killing the respect of the Lannister name forever and exiling the twins in the process?

No, he couldn't have that. 

"Lover, sister, they are one and the same for me," he admitted shamelessly. 

"You're disgusting," she murmured sickly, inching away from him. 

Jaime huffed smugly. "I don't need to remind you who your husband's parents are. House Targaryen was built on incest."

"And yet you are no dragon," she quipped. 

"No, I'm not," he sighed. There was a long, tortuous pause as they stared each other down. "So, what are we going to do about this?"

She was wary again, those wild animal eyes widening. "What do you mean?" Lyanna gripped the knife that much harder. 

"I mean," he said, "you saw something you weren't supposed to see, and now we need to do something about it."

She grimaced and straightened up. "I'm not going to tell anyone if that's what you're on about." And she seemed sincere, face crumpled in confusion, as if she couldn't understand why Jaime would assume she would tell. 

"Let's not play games," he sighed tiredly. He should have known being with Cersei in the Red Keep was a dangerous game, but she'd looked so beautiful and he wanted to be inside her after so long a separation. 

"I'm not playing games," she affirmed, "I'm not going to tell anyone your...secret. Why would I?"

Jaime laughed condescendingly. "To drag my House through the mud, to-"

"I don't want to drag your House through the mud," she cut him off heatedly. "I _don't care_ about your family."

He studied the little wolf, that dark hair so unlike Cersei's, that pale milk skin so unlike Cersei's, those stormy eyes and fire and small, sinewy body. And besides that, her utter and complete innocence to courtly games - so unlike Cersei. 

"You're not going to tell?" He repeated doubtfully. If he was more like Cersei, he'd kill the girl and be done with it, just to be sure her little mouth would stay shut. But Jaime didn't want to hurt the princess, and he wanted to believe she'd keep her word. 

"How many times do I need to repeat it?" She snapped. Lyanna seemed so young then, a child almost, even though she was sixteen, the same age as he and Cersei. 

Jaime swallowed down his prickled ire. "Fine then, it seems like we're in agreement. You're not going to say anything because you didn't see anything." He went to leave, done with their conversation. 

Her voice stopped him in his tracks. "Oh, Ser Jaime, I never said we were done."

He swiveled on his feet, eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

And then she did it. She smiled, intelligence keen in her eyes, and he saw Cersei in her, the part of his twin that never failed to light a fire inside him. "I require something in return."

He cocked his head. "In return for what?"

"For my silence of course." She seemed cocky now that she seemed sure he wouldn't hurt her. 

He laughed incredulously. "You're blackmailing me?!"

She seemed to realize she'd won. "I like to think of this as an exchange of goods."

He frowned, itching for his sword, itching for Cersei. "What do you want, money?"

She scoffed. "Do you know who my husband is? I hope you're better with a sword than you are with your mind."

He brushed off the slight, and asked, "Sword?"

She nodded. "I want you to teach me how to properly wield a sword."

He laughed. "No, no way."

Her face crumpled. "And why not?"

"Do you know who your husband is?" He repeated her words mockingly back to her. "The prince won't appreciate me teaching his wife to wield steel."

"The prince," she intoned, "will never know."

His jaw slackened. "You want me to keep a secret from my future king, from my Kingsguard brothers?"

"From everyone," she clarified. 

"Are you insane?" 

"Quite sane," she replied. "Your skills for my silence."

He clenched his jaw. He should have known it wouldn't have been so easy as to demand her silence for nothing in return; she was smarter than he'd given her credit for. 

But then he thought of Cersei and how much he loved her, how much he'd do to protect her. "My skills for your silence," he agreed, turning away again before she could extort more from him. When he got to the door, he looked over his shoulder. "First lesson is tonight."


	32. Keep Your Crown Up

The great stone statue of the Father loomed above Rhaegar in the Sept of Baelor, staring down upon him with inimitable scrutiny. Though it was naught but a statue of stone and jewels and finery, Rhaegar could feel the Father's judgement, that unshakable justice in those unseeing eyes. 

He wondered if the gods would see his deed as honorable: removing a tyrant from the throne, or unforgivable: stealing away his father's birthright. 

The Great Sept was scarcely populated, only a few ladies here and there, with a smattering of squires and knights and maidservants at the Warrior and Mother and Crone. 

Cersei Lannister was a beacon of sunlight kneeling at the Maiden, her golden hair spiraling down the back of her crimson gown. She lit a candle and bent her head to pray, the very image of maidenly devotion. 

Rhaegar waited with Ser Arthur at his shoulder for Lady Cersei to finish her prayer. The crimson shawl in Rhaegar's hand seemed to burn his skin, as if the scrolls secretly tucked inside the silk were on display for all to see. 

_Witness my treason_ , it screamed at him, _witness me, betrayer of kin._ Rhaegar closed his eyes to stave off the mental image of his life's blood painting the sept's plaza and Lyanna's head rolling after him. 

That particular nightmare would become reality if the shawl got into the wrong hands. 

Because Lord Tywin Lannister had finally, _thankfully_ agreed to give Rhaegar his support in the prince's pursuit of the crown. Thus far, Rhaegar and the lion lord had communicated via riders, distrusting of ravens' trustworthiness and liability. Birds could be shot down, intercepted, and he could not afford for his plans to go awry before they even began. 

Thus why Cersei Lannister had come to Court. Lord Tywin had sent his daughter to retrieve the siege plans Rhaegar had drawn up for when the time came; the lion maiden was a perfect messenger, no one willing to question her presence at Court. And the shawl was a way to conceal his traitorous plans. 

Once everything was in place - namely, procuring an heir, though thinking about that sent both ice and fire down his veins - all Tywin had to do was wait for Rhaegar's secret message: a raven-bearing parchment that would read _"goldroad"_. 

Then, chaos would begin. 

Cersei finished her devotion, gathering her skirts in hand before she stood. The crystal towers threw rainbows through her hair, splicing red yellow green blue on the silk of her gown. 

For a time, Rhaegar had thought the lioness might be his wife. With Tywin as Hand and a close friend of his father's, it almost seemed inevitable for House Lannister to marry into House Targaryen. 

But then Aerys' mind began to drift deeper and deeper into madness, and his and Tywin's relationship bent bent bent until it broke irreparably, and Rhaegar was no longer an option for little Cersei. 

Though he was not immune to her beauty, all golden looks and green eyes, Rhaegar could not help but think that the lioness could not compare to his winter wolf. 

"My prince," Cersei intoned, dipping into a smooth curtsy. Her heart-shaped face was light gold, and bright with those startling green eyes. 

Rhaegar nodded, offering her his elbow. "My lady." She wound her arm through his, tucking appropriately into his side. Together they walked toward the Maidenvault where Cersei stayed, Ser Arthur trailing them. 

They were silver and gold, dragon and lion, but he found himself wishing for thunderstorm eyes and snow white skin. At the great carved doors of the Maidenvault, guards in Lannister crimson and gold milled about, as well as Ser Jaime in Kingsguard white. 

The golden twins smiled at one another, but made no conversation as Rhaegar, Arthur, and Cersei slipped through the doors. Scarred Sandor Clegane immediately opened Cersei's chamber door for them, shutting it softly behind them afterward. 

Rhaegar handed over the crimson shawl carefully so as not to crush the papers beneath.

"Is this the _gift_ for my lord father?" She asked sweetly. Cersei's cunning eyes told him she was not oblivious to what lay beneath. 

"It is, my lady," he replied. 

Cersei smiled, a white crescent moon streak across her mouth. "I'll be sure it goes to his hands, and his hands only." Cersei would be leaving for Casterly Rock immediately now that she had the siege plans. 

"Thank you, my lady. Your House's service to me is unparalleled and extremely appreciated." Rhaegar thought of Jon Connington's pleading words, his warning to the prince that lions always expected something in return for any favor, big or small. _Lannisters always pay their debts._

"House Lannister always follows strength," Cersei smiled, her green eyes glinting. "And I would do anything for my future king."

Rhaegar's heart raced in guilt and anticipation, both in response to his plans of deposing his father. If the gods were on his side, within a year, he'd be sitting on the Iron Throne with Lyanna at his side while his father lived out the remainder of his life on Dragonstone. 

"Please send your father my regards," Rhaegar softly requested, taking her hand to kiss. 

"Of course," she replied, dipping her head in deference, though never dropping those green eyes. 

Ser Arthur went to open the door, and Rhaegar slipped away with one parting smile of gratitude. He looked down the dim hallway, sighing wistfully at the sight of Lyanna's doorway. He might've tried to visit her if he didn't know she had plans to share her midday meal with his mother. 

Rhaegar tore his eyes away from her chambers and ghosted past the scarred Sandor. Outside the Maidenvault, Ser Jaime stood straighter, his golden hair curling at the collar of his white armor. 

Ser Arthur waited until they were a good distance away to ask, "Do you trust the Lannisters?"

Rhaegar sighed gently. "No," he said, "but into the lions' den I go anyway."

* * *

"Oh, tart!" Beth exclaimed around a mouthful of oranges, her face screwed up at the sour taste. 

Lyanna grinned and unpeeled a few more slices for the hungry little orphans at her feet; they stared up at her with wide, haunted eyes, their gaunt bodies thin beneath the rags they wore. 

No sooner had she unpeeled them did the children steal them from her, running away with squeals of glee at their treats. Lyanna's smile widened, and she was glad she'd thought to bring back a bag of Dornish oranges from the Water Gardens. 

"I must be honest with you," Beth began, "I did not think you would be back, Your Highness."

Lyanna frowned. It had been weeks since she'd last snuck to Flea Bottom, having traveled to and from Dorne in the interim. "I did promise, didn't I?"

Beth smiled softly. "You did. But promises don't tend to hold much water around here."

Lyanna swept her eyes around - at the crumbling walls, the starving children, the dirtied rags the orphans wore, the air thick with stink. "I keep my promises. And I'll be back tomorrow with more food. And coin as well."

Beth looked on the verge of tears. "Princess, that is too much."

Lyanna held up a hand. "It is nothing. But I will do all that I can."

Lyanna left soon after, leaving behind the sack of oranges and a few of her old dresses for some of the older girls at the orphanage. She crept back to the sewers, trekking through miles of filth and dirt and darkness, until finally she was back inside the Red Keep. 

Her muscles screamed at her for the rigorous journey, too sore from her nightly lessons with Jaime. More often than not, she ended up on her ass as the lion stood over her, smug and triumphant. She couldn't wait until she was proficient enough with a sword that she put Jaime on _his_ ass. 

Lyanna dropped her skirts down from where she'd tied them, and made her way back toward her chambers. She'd planned to meet with Rhaella soon for a midday meal, and she'd need to change before eating with her. 

But just as she had turned the corner, the Maidenvault in the distance, she froze. Cersei Lannister, the incestuous golden girl, was inexplicably on the arm of Rhaegar, Ser Arthur behind them. 

With a sink of her heart, Lyanna realized how _beautiful_ they looked together, the silver dragon and golden lioness. The thought made Lyanna scowl. 

Cersei and Rhaegar slipped into the Maidenvault together, but only Rhaegar and Ser Arthur came out a few minutes later, the Lady Lannister left inside. 

Lyanna frowned, wondering what business Rhaegar had with the Lannister girl. It was a thought that haunted her even as she made her way into her chambers, changing into a clean dress, and then went to Maegor's Holdfast where Rhaella waited for her. 

The queen must have sensed something was wrong with Lyanna because as soon as she saw her, Rhaella asked, "My lovely girl, what is the matter?"

Lyanna blinked, as if finally coming to. "Oh, nothing," she murmured unconvincingly. She took an empty seat at the table, breathing in the scent of the small cucumber sandwiches. 

"Oh, sweet thing," Rhaella sighed. "A mother always knows when her children are bothered. And you are my daughter now."

Tears sprang to Lyanna's eyes instantly and she wanted to bury her face in Rhaella's neck, to be held like a little girl would be held by her mother. 

Instead, Lyanna asked, "Will Cersei Lannister be here long?"

Rhaella frowned. "I am unsure, darling. I do not even know the reason she is here, but I assume she will leave soon."

Lyanna nodded absently, twirling her knife. 

Rhaella studied her for a long while, and it made Lyanna's skin pebble with goosebumps. Finally, the queen said, "When I was younger, Cersei's mother was my lady-in-waiting. Joanna Lannister was her name - a beautiful, golden lady if there ever was one.

"She was just as beautiful as the Lady Cersei is. Tall and golden with those Lannister green eyes." Rhaella smiled sadly. "She was my closest friend."

Lyanna was enthralled by the tone of the story, wondering where this was going. All that she could remember was Aerys' comments to her at that horrid dinner before they left for Dorne, where he remarked how much Lyanna reminded him of Joanna Lannister. Suddenly she didn't want to know where this story was going...

"Aerys liked her too," Rhaella said lightly, "though not in the same way that I did. I turned a blind eye to many of my husband's infidelities, but I could _not_ support him turning my ladies into his whores."

Lyanna was surprised at the sudden fire in Rhaella's voice. She'd never seen the queen so vibrant, so passionate. Lyanna wondered how many of Rhaegar's infidelities she would have to turn a "blind eye" to. 

"Joanna was a good and kind friend to me," Rhaella said, "but even lions cannot deny kings. Cersei Lannister has only seemed to inherit her mother's beauty - everything else is her father. And Tywin Lannister is a man of far too much cunning and questionable loyalty."

Lyanna swallowed heavily. "Do you think that...Rhaegar is like the king in-" She stopped to breathe. " _That way?_ "

Rhaella smiled gently. "No, my lovely girl, I do not. Rhaegar is more like me than his father, thank the gods." The last part she murmured quietly. 

"But," Rhaella continued, "there might be trials and tribulations in your marriage one day that have you questioning yourself, as well as your position. When Rhaegar becomes king, there will be more women than you can count wishing to cast you from his side and put themselves in your place."

Lyanna's heart fumbled then raced. Her throat felt dry as a bone. 

"But remember, my beautiful daughter," Rhaella said with her chin held high, "you are a princess of House Targaryen and Stark, and you will one day be queen. So even when they push you, they can never take your crown."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for this chapter's delay. I have been sick with kidney problems, and could not write. Hope you enjoyed!


	33. A Wolf's Wrath

"It's getting worse, Rhaegar," Jon Connington murmured darkly, his eyes far away. 

Rhaegar hung his head, the smell of burnt flesh and bones heavy in his memory. The screams of those maidservants had been horrific, inhuman shrieks that echoed throughout every stone wall in the Red Keep. 

The maids had stolen some velvet finery from Maegor's, but were quickly caught by some guards. Aerys hadn't even bothered to call Court, finding it sufficient enough that Rhaegar, Jon Connington, the rest of the small council, and all seven Kingsguards were in attendance. 

And they watched the two maidservants get strapped to Aerys' new device, a contraption of wood shaped like a crooked finger so that they could be strung up by a rope noose, unable to escape from the firepit placed beneath their feet. 

They'd burned alive within minutes, their flesh and muscles melting like butter off their skeletons, leaving behind only charred remains of bone and teeth. 

"You have to move your plan up early," Jon implored him desperately, "this can't go on any longer. The realms will revolt before long, and your House could face extinction."

Rhaegar sighed, raking his hands through his hair. There was too much on his plate: his prophesied three children, overthrowing his father, falling for his wife... "I can't, Jon. Not yet. Not until I have an heir."

"And is the girl barren?" Jon demanded. "Why is her belly still as flat as the day she arrived at the tourney?"

Rhaegar clenched his jaw, maintaining silence. He did not want to talk to anyone about his lack of consummating the marriage, least of all Jon Connington who seemed to harbor a deep dislike for Lyanna. 

In Rhaegar's quiet, Jon frowned, his eyes widening. "Is your marriage even valid?" He asked quietly, though Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell heard anyway; they looked away. 

Rhaegar looked up, sighing. "Not in the eyes of the realm."

Jon exploded. "Seven hells, you have to be joking! It is your right as her husband, as her prince, as her future king, to bed her. She should be _grateful_ that she will bear your children!"

There was suddenly a knock at the door, breaking up the tension of the conversation. The men silenced and Rhaegar called for the door to be opened, thankful for the distraction. The wood of the door squeaked as it swung open, and Lyanna filled the doorway. 

She was stunning in a dress of jade gossamer silk, the sunlight of the morning glowing beautifully upon her. Her dark hair was wild and wavy about her shoulders, and her grey eyes were bright and clear. 

"Oh," she said in surprise, looking around the room, "was I interrupting something?"

Rhaegar went to stand, to insist that she hadn't interrupted anything, but Jon Connington's stormy thoughts were stoked in her presence. " _You_ ," he said with accusation, "are an ungrateful little brat!"

"Jon," Rhaegar said, meaning to stop this hellstorm before it began. 

But Lyanna was quicker, marching inside so that the door shut loudly behind her. "Excuse me?" Her grey eyes rolled with storm clouds, deadly and dark. 

"You are a woman grown, sixteen, married, and yet _still_ a virgin?" Jon Connington laughed incredulously, a touch manic. His red hair stood on end like a frightened cat. 

Lyanna's grey eyes flew to Rhaegar, anger evident, before going back to Jon Connington. "That is none of your business!"

"It's my business what happens to this realm," Jon retorted, "and your petulant little maiden act is going to drown us all in fire."

Her face was properly confused as she was still ignorant to Rhaegar's plans of deposing his father, but she persisted. "Yeah? Well you can take your thoughts and shove them right up your-"

"Stop," Rhaegar sighed, "please." He stood from his chair. 

Both Jon and Lyanna whirled on him, twin anger sitting on their faces. Their chests heaved from the power of their argument, and the air was thick with tension. Arthur looked positively bursting with something to say, but Oswell just seemed uncomfortable. 

"You should find a mistress," Jon Connington said loud enough for everyone to hear. "Someone to bear you the heirs you need."

Lyanna scowled deeply. Rhaegar said, "Jon, stop."

"Oh, no, don't stop on my account," Lyanna cut in. "On second thought, just get a second wife. Or better yet, set aside our marriage!" Lyanna was in a dangerous mood, a winter princess coming back with a vengeance. 

Rhaegar's heart went to his throat. The entire situation had spun out of control and he needed to fix it. He'd thought that they had made tremendous steps since Lyanna's days of wishing their marriage to be annulled. And Jon had unraveled all their progress with a few biting words. 

" _Perfect_ solution!" Jon shouted with manic glee. "Cersei Lannister could be your queen. Gods know you will owe the Lannisters enough."

Lyanna frowned in confusion, but the idea of Cersei as queen had her indignation back front and center. "Fuck you."

"Now I can see why you haven't consummated," Jon said unkindly, "I don't blame you for not wanting her."

Rhaegar could swear that he saw fire dancing in Lyanna's grey eyes when she quipped, "Oh, like you?"

Rhaegar flew to his feet, inserting himself at her insinuation, knowing just how angry Jon could get when _that_ subject was broached. 

"Lyanna and I are married," Rhaegar affirmed, "and _no one_ is going to repeat what was revealed in this room." He looked at Jon when he said this, now wary that he had revealed Lyanna and he had not consummated. 

"You're just going to let her get away with this?" Jon asked incredulously, face red. Ser Arthur leveled a stern look at Jon, unhappy that the Hand was overstepping with both the prince and princess. 

"Oh, should he rape me, Lord Connington? Would that make you happy?" Lyanna demanded sarcastically. 

Jon clenched his jaw. "No, but-"

"Then keep your nose out of my business. Otherwise, get used to it." Lyanna turned to Rhaegar. "If it's kinship you seek, I'm sure the Kingsguard can relate to how it feels to never be inside a woman." Then, her mouth twisted cruelly, and she spared a glance across the room. "Or even perhaps Lord Connington." 

She turned away before Jon could strike her, for which Rhaegar was supremely grateful. He didn't want to have to physically defend his wife against his close friend. Lyanna slipped out of his room, angrier than winter, and Rhaegar wondered just what kind of storm Jon had just gotten him into.

* * *

Lyanna seethed in her room, positively _boiling_ with anger. She'd just gone to Rhaegar's room to see if there was any spare coin he might have been able to give her for the orphanage; she'd planned on making up an excuse about shopping in the city, but Jon Connington, Hand of the King, had ruined everything. 

Treating her like some bitch because she hadn't bedded down with Rhaegar, implying she was ungrateful and a snot. _He's just angry the prince won't love him back_ , Lyanna thought unkindly, wishing pain against Connington. 

She stewed in her anger for hours, watching twilight descend on King's Landing as she played through Jon Connington's words in her mind again and again and again and again. 

She thought of how he so casually proposed infidelity to Rhaegar, of a new wife. Lyanna recalled an image of Lady Cersei, and how stunning the Lannister lady had looked on her silver prince's arm. 

Lyanna wanted to claw her own eyes out and rip the skin from Jon's stern red face, wanted to sink her fangs in his skin and tear him limb from limb. How _dare_ he embarrass her like that in front of Rhaegar and Arthur and Oswell, airing her sex life - or lack thereof - for all to hear. 

She was humiliated, and upset, and filled to the brim with violent, uncontrollable anger. She got to her feet, swishing the thin jade silk of her skirts behind her like the trail of a river. 

She wrenched open her chamber door, startling Ser Jaime in the process. "Ready for your lessons?" He murmured sarcastically, but shut his mouth when he caught the look on her face. 

"No," she spat, hearing the clank of his armor which meant he was following her. 

"Where are you going?" He asked as they left the Maidenvault. 

Lyanna wasn't sure what she was doing; all she knew was that she was wrathful and she wanted to find Jon and Rhaegar. She stalked around the Keep, checking every corner and room, until finally she and Jaime walked over the drawbridge into Maegor's, where Ser Jonothor was posted at its entrance. 

She felt like a wolf, her blood singing, her strides purposeful and brutal. Her boots echoed against the stone floor, enough so that when she turned the corner and saw Rhaegar speaking with a group of men outside his chambers, they all looked up. 

Jaime was still behind her, but slowed when he saw her destination. Of the men Rhaegar was speaking with, Lyanna recognized four: Sers Arthur, Oswell, and Barristan, and the red-faced, red-haired Jon Connington. Jon's face folded in resentful irritation at the sight of her approach. 

Rhaegar just looked...concerned and happy. His pale face was open with the smallest of smiles, his indigo eyes wide and shining. Lyanna's heart did a double thump as she aimed for him, her legs bringing her closer and closer to him, so close, too close...

She wrapped her hands at the back of his neck and pulled his face down to hers. Their lips met in a spark, like a lightning strike blazing through her skin. It was all at once painful and incredible, like the feeling of falling in a dream. Her veins rushed blood through her system, adrenaline and pleasure warring each other. 

It was like she was underwater, the sounds of the other men's voices muddy and incoherent. She felt high and mighty, her mind too disordered to properly relish in the fact, the _feeling_ of kissing him. 

As far as first kisses went, it was...well she didn't quite know. Rhaegar was her first ever kiss, and she was so strung out on energy and adrenaline that she forgot to actually _feel_ him. 

Rhaegar seemed utterly frozen for about three seconds and then he snapped into motion, gathering her in his arms so that she wilted into him like summer grass to the wind. What had begun as a seemingly innocent kiss quickly morphed its way into something hotter, a kiss that was tongue and teeth and burning, burning, burning. 

Fire erupted in Lyanna's belly, little tendrils of surprise and pleasure bursting through her. But this kiss had a rhyme and unfortunately, Rhaegar was not the sole benefactor of her actions. 

She pulled back from his mouth and dropped down from her toes, briefly catching the stunned glaze in Rhaegar's eyes, before turning to Jon Connington, whose leathery face was beet red in anger and tilted into a sneer. 

Lyanna recalled his earlier words: _"Now I can see why you haven't consummated. I don't blame you for not wanting her."_ Judging by Rhaegar's reaction, he sure as hells didn't _hate_ that kiss. 

She casually rubbed a thumb over her bottom lip to wipe away their kiss, all the while maintaining eye contact with Jon. 

She enjoyed the play of his hate on those stern red features, relishing in the fact that she'd managed to kill two birds with one stone - show her husband and the Hand what she was made of. 

Then she cocked one brow as if to say _What now?_ and then she strode off, a satisfied swagger to her step from besting the griff. 

_How did that taste, Jon?_


	34. Secrets No More

Rhaegar felt like he'd been dunked in ice water, doused in oil, and set aflame with wildfire. Every nerve ending in his body was razed with ravenous desire, his blood boiling with it. 

He watched Lyanna go long after she had disappeared, staring down the long hallway like a struck fool. It was as if he was underwater, slowly emerging until finally the voices around him became clearer and clearer. 

"Your Highness," they said at him. "Prince Rhaegar."

Rhaegar blinked, noises flooding in at him. "You all may go," he said dismissively. Only Ser Barristan was required to be at Rhaegar's side that night, having been assigned guard to him. 

"Ser Barristan," Rhaegar said over his shoulder, ignoring the curious looks the men gave him as they slowly dispersed, as well as the furious one Jon Connington shot him. 

Barristan straightened up, his white armor clinking as it shifted. 

"Let's go." He wasn't sure what he was doing; all he knew was that he wanted to see Lyanna and now. 

Rhaegar and Barristan walked in relative silence from Maegor's and over to the Maidenvault. Rhaegar was lost in his head, trying to remember the way Lyanna's lips had felt on his, so soft and so warm. 

But trying to grasp onto that memory was like trying to see through murky waters with his eyes open. The harder he tried, the quicker it drained from his mind until finally he wondered if he'd imagined it altogether. 

Rhaegar swept into the Maidenvault with swift determination, the heavy iron doors creaking ominously. His determination, however, was cut short when he rammed into a small, warm body. His hands instinctively grabbed at the soft flesh of a waist, holding the body still. 

In the dim evening light of the Maidenvault, it was difficult to see much, but Rhaegar could make out the surprise painted all over Lyanna's pretty face. 

Her full mouth was parted, her grey eyes wide and shocked. Her pretty silk dress was gone and in its place, she was dressed in skintight riding pants tucked into tall leather boots, and an oversized black tunic that Rhaegar had a sneaking suspicion was his from his wedding day - the same one he'd given her to sleep in after helping her out of her wedding gown. 

"What are you doing?" They both said it at the same time, falling into awkward silence after. The air was so thick, he felt like he could cut in with a knife. 

Rhaegar eyed her outfit once more, feeling heat bubbling up inside him. The leather of her leggings was so tight it was like a second skin, lining the curves of her legs sinfully. His tunic hung loose on her frame so that most of her collarbones were exposed, pale flesh burning silver in the dark. 

He frowned. "Where are you going?"

Her eyes flashed around suspiciously as she searched for an answer. "Just for a walk," she eventually said. 

"Dressed like a Night's Watch recruit?" Rhaegar quipped. 

The corners of her mouth quirked up involuntarily, but Lyanna quickly killed her amusement. "Just wanted some air."

"Lyanna," he said patiently, "where were you planning to go?"

She fidgeted under his scrutiny but locked her jaw nonetheless. "A walk."

Rhaegar turned his chin a fraction near his shoulder. "Ser Barristan, could you please leave us?"

The knight didn't spare a moment before whisking away to exit the Maidenvault, leaving Rhaegar and Lyanna in the silent darkness. He sighed heavily, his chest sinking as if an anvil had been lifted. 

"Lyanna, the truth please. I don't want any...secrets."

Lyanna stared up into his eyes, apprehension and skepticism heavy in her expression. Her teeth ran over her full bottom lip, worrying it until it turned a becoming shade of red, ripe like an apple. He wanted to lean forward, kiss her again, only it would be _his_ decision this time...

"You'll be angry," she murmured suddenly, casting her eyes down. 

A thousand possible solutions for his anger ran through his mind, but he could find none that Lyanna would do. "I won't."

She looked up at him beneath her lashes. "Yes, you will. And then you'll take it away from me."

He frowned, suddenly worried. "What is it?"

She shook her head lightly, clutching her small fingers into her borrowed tunic sleeves. 

"I won't take it away," he promised, putting two fingers beneath her chin and lifting her face. 

Her jaw clicked as she shifted it, her wolf's eyes studying him for any signs of deceit or trickery. When she found none, she blew out a long breath, clenching her eyes shut. 

"I was going to sneak out," she whispered guiltily. 

Rhaegar's brows knitted together. "Sneak out?"

She frowned, looking up. "Yes."

"Where?" There was no way for her to get out of the Red Keep without going by a guard of some sort. Unless she had bribed one somehow...

"To Flea Bottom." Her tone was meek. 

Rhaegar's jaw dropped. " _Flea Bottom_? You were sneaking out to Flea Bottom?"

"Have been," she corrected him. "Several times actually." By the end, her voice was thin and wispy. 

Lyanna was so small and thin, and though she was fiery, she couldn't defend herself against the potential scum that stuck to the bottom of King's Landing. 

"What-" He stopped, unsure of what to ask. "Why?"

She swallowed in fear. "There's this orphanage there and they need a lot of help, so I've been sneaking out, bringing food with me, playing with the kids." Rhaegar finally noticed the large sack wound around her hand, lumpy and probably filled with food. 

"How did this even come about?" He asked. 

She sighed, leaning against the wall, the back of her head smacking against it. "I was exploring the Keep one day, the day I missed Court actually..." She sent him a contrite look. "I found this cellar, and I went in it. And...just kept going until I emerged at the sewers at the bottom of Flea Bottom, miles away from the castle."

It was too much for Rhaegar to take in at once. His pretty little lady wife, exploring his castle, exploring the dregs of his city, wandering defenseless where thieves and rapists and lustful men roamed by the thousands. 

"And you found an orphanage?" 

She nodded. "This little girl fell down, so I wanted to help her home." She paused. "It turned out she didn't have a home. I helped her back to the orphanage though, and then I met Beth, the woman who runs it."

Rhaegar shoved his hands in his hair, frustrated and disbelieving, yet somehow overcome with such awe that his princess was doing a kindness with no such expectations for recognition or retribution. His heart swelled at the idea as much as his mind rebuked the dangers of it. 

"Do you-" She said into the quiet, stopping suddenly. 

Rhaegar looked at her, beautiful in black like Danny Flint born again. "What? Do I what?" He prompted. 

She swallowed a gust of breath. "Do you...want to come with me? I could show you."

"To Flea Bottom?"

She nodded. 

"To the orphanage?" He asked for clarification.

She nodded again eagerly, coming out of her shell more now that she sensed he wasn't going to immediately ban her from ever going again, or lock her in a room, or whatever else. 

He wanted to refuse, to tell her she could never venture out to Flea Bottom alone again, to never put herself in that danger. But then she was looking up at him with such hope, and he remembered the fire she had ignited when she kissed him for the first time only a mere half hour before, his blood singing for her. 

"Okay," he said before he even made his decision. 

Her grey eyes popped open. "Really?"

He sighed, exasperated but strangely anticipatory. "Yes really." At least he would be with her. And Ser Barristan, if something happened to either of them. 

Her face bloomed with a smile before her eyes flicked down. "You'll want to change your clothes then."

He looked down at himself. A silk tunic embroidered with his sigil, woolen pants, a doublet of velvet. "Why?"

She grinned mischievously, like a wolf going in for the kill. "Because we're going through the sewers, and the people of Flea Bottom will strip you of that silk before we ever make it to the orphanage."

All Rhaegar really wanted to do was kiss her again, or maybe even ask _why_ she'd done it, if it was only to get back at Jon...but if he could get her to smile like that, Rhaegar would have done anything in the world.

It was another half hour before they left the Keep. Rhaegar had hurriedly explained the situation to Ser Barristan, who kept the same visage of calm the entire time though his eyes sparkled a bit at the princess' moxie, and then they both went to change clothing. 

Rhaegar donned a grey tunic, black pants, a plain hooded cloak, and riding boots that had seen better days. And as per Rhaegar's order, Barristan had stripped himself of his Kingsguard armor and changed into plain street clothes and a billowing cloak that could easily conceal the sword strapped to the knight's hip. 

Then, Lyanna had led them to her secret cellar, deep into the forgotten part of the Keep that went mostly unused. Rhaegar could barely keep his surprise contained when she led them inside, past a secret opening that would not have been seen for all the useless crap laying about everywhere. 

She led them through dirt trails of hard ground, winding pathways where bits of stray timber slept, down slopes where water rushed, and finally into the shallow waves of the sewers. Miles and miles of journeying through complete darkness except for the two torches they'd brought that had been quickly snuffed out. 

Lyanna, Rhaegar, and Ser Barristan waded through the filthy waters, sloshing the sewers all over their boots until they emerged to a small river where they could clean their feet. They did so quietly, splashing leather through river water, the darkness of nightfall shrouding them from any curious onlookers. 

"Look," Lyanna murmured in awe, tapping his shoulder. 

Rhaegar looked up. The moon was heavy in the dark sky, its face swollen with pale silver light. The capital was alive in a frenzy of noise and light, bright with candles, feverish with the sounds of men japing and women laughing and children squealing. 

And up atop its famous hill, miles and miles away, was the Red Keep, a pale red spider with seven legs.


	35. Adventures of the Crown

"Your friend is nice," Rhaegar said as they slipped out of the orphanage into the chill of the night. He immediately pulled the hood of his cloak up to conceal his silver hair. 

Lyanna smiled. "She is." Beth had been all at once surprised, awed, and partially love struck when Lyanna had arrived to the orphanage with Rhaegar in tow. Lyanna didn't think that even Elia Martell had looked so starry-eyed when presented with the prince. 

And when Rhaegar had bestowed a full coin purse to Beth, Lyanna was sure Beth's baby was going to be born right then and there. 

"You were kind to give them that coin," Lyanna mumbled, embracing the cold wind that whipped her skin. 

"It was important to you," he offered simply, gracing her with a winning smile. He studied her for a long while as she looked out into the street wistfully. "Have you ever been to a tavern before?" He asked suddenly, randomly. 

Lyanna scoffed. "No. I left the taverns to my brother, Brandon, and his friends."

"How about we prolong our secret trip, and I show you a taste of King's Landing at night?"

Lyanna raised a brow. "What do you know about King's Landing at night?"

He spared her a mischievous glance. "More than you would think, Princess."

* * *

The tavern Rhaegar led them to was a lovely place, alive with music and dancing and laughter and drinks. The tables were filled with patrons and whores, serving wenches twisting throughout taking orders. 

They'd found a little high-topped table in the corner and had ordered three jugs of ale, even though Ser Barristan had refused. 

"That whore is staring at you, Barristan," Rhaegar chuckled suddenly, hiding his mirth with the lip of his jug. 

Ser Barristan colored immediately, ducking his chin to hide from the sultry red-haired woman. Lyanna wanted to laugh; Barristan the Bold could slay Maelys the Monstrous singlehandedly, could infiltrate Duskendale to save a king, could kill the leader of the Kingswood Brotherhood, but blushed when a whore looked his way. 

"No, she is not," Lyanna retorted out of pity for the white knight. 

Rhaegar cocked his head, the drink long having colored his pale skin. "Oh, really? How much do you want to bet?" The drink had also loosened his tongue much to Lyanna's intense pleasure. 

Lyanna chuckled, rolling her eyes. "I'm not betting with you."

Rhaegar cocked a brow. "Scared?"

Something in Lyanna's blood boiled with the need to accept a challenge, no matter how silly. "You're on. If she approaches Ser Barristan, I'll..."

"Chug the rest of that drink," Rhaegar inserted, tipping his almost empty jug at her full one. 

Lyanna snorted softly. "Fine, and if she doesn't approach, you have to go sing outside with the minstrels." There was at least a dozen musicians outside, competing with one another for who could sing the loudest, the best, the prettiest, and a large crowd had gathered to watch them go at it. 

There was some sort of self-satisfied glint in Rhaegar's purple eyes when he nodded, like he was winning either way, and Lyanna didn't understand it, but she forgot it as soon as his palm smoothed into hers for a handshake. 

Barristan chuckled throatily at the both of them. "What kind of Kingsguard am I to allow the crown prince and princess to drink and gamble in Flea Bottom?"

"It's hardly gambling," Rhaegar argued, "since I'm definitely going to win."

Surprised happiness at Rhaegar's boldness lit up Lyanna's eyes. "Oh, I can't wait to hear you sing, Your Highness. It will be a song for the ages."

"Well actually," Ser Barristan said, leaning in to mock-whisper conspiratorially. 

"Hi there, handsome." The red-haired whore appeared out of nowhere, draping herself over Ser Barristan like an alley cat. The dress she swore was sheer and hardly more than a shift, and when she moved, it seemed like it might fall right off her. 

Lyanna's jaw dropped, Barristan froze, and Rhaegar looked smug and on the verge of laughing at the same time. 

"What's a lady got to do to get a man like you upstairs?" The whore purred, trailing a finger down his chest. 

Barristan sputtered, fidgeting beneath her touch with obvious discomfort. "Oh, I don't- uh, no I-"

Before she knew what she was doing, overcome by sympathy for the uncomfortable Kingsguard, Lyanna cut in. "He's a eunuch!"

The whore, Rhaegar, and Barristan looked sharply at her, each one plagued by their own expression: Rhaegar in amused intrigue, Barristan in bafflement, and the whore in intense disappointment. 

Lyanna bit down on the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. "Yep, nothing but air _down there_ , so unless you like that sort of thing, you'd have more luck with me. Or one of those men over there."

The whore sighed loudly, threw a sad look at Barristan, and slunk off like a kicked dog. "Princess!" Barristan gasped like a little maiden scandalized. 

Lyanna giggled into her ale. "What?" She shrugged. "I felt bad she wouldn't leave you alone."

"You should feel even worse," Rhaegar noted with humor, "because you also lost a bet. Drink up."

"You're no gentleman," Lyanna chuckled, smiling at Barristan quickly before tipping her jug back. The ale tasted metallic, like sucking on a copper coin, but she gulped it all down and slammed her cup down with satisfaction. 

The serving wench immediately came over to fill her jug back up. "My princess drinks like a sailor," Rhaegar laughed into his cup. 

"Oh, shut up, stupid," Lyanna retorted, the ale warming her blood. "My prince has no honor."

Rhaegar frowned, humor still glittering in his eyes. "How so?"

"Challenging a royal lady to chug her drink," Lyanna scoffed, affecting a snooty Southron accent. "Scandalous I tell you."

Rhaegar's grin was wide and predatory. "How can I make it even then?"

Lyanna tapped a finger to her chin in mock-though. "If you go through with your punishment as well. Sing outside in front of all the minstrels and crowd. Then my honor will be restored."

Rhaegar quirked his brow, smirking. "Deal."

They finished and paid for their drinks, Barristan throwing oddly amused looks at the two of them, before meandering outside where all the singers were loudly rendering the lyrics of _Bear and the Maiden Fair_. They stood on the fringe, waiting until the song came to a close. 

When the song ended, Rhaegar made his way to the center where the minstrels were set up, looking odd with the cowl of his black cloak over his head. He murmured something to the man playing the woodharp, before turning and smirking at Lyanna.

"Why does he look so smug?" Lyanna wondered out loud. She admitted to herself that this drinking Rhaegar, tongue and smirks loose, had her feeling hot inside. 

"You'll see," Ser Barristan said with a smile, watching where the prince took the woodharp in his own hand and sat upon an empty stool. 

Lyanna's brows furrowed in confusion; she hadn't known Rhaegar could play the woodharp, let alone an instrument at all. His fingers experimentally plucked at the harp's strings, eliciting high, sweet notes. The crowd hushed, waiting for the hooded man to begin his song. 

When the first few notes played out, the other minstrels joining into Rhaegar's music, Lyanna could hardly believe it. The melancholy beginning of _Brave Danny Flint_ sounded out, its sweet notes stretching like taffy in summer. 

And then Rhaegar opened his mouth and began to sing. Lyanna's eyes widened and her jaw slackened, her heart thrumming queerly at the sound of her prince's clear, strong voice climbing over every word and lyric like he was Bael the Bard come back to life. 

Rhaegar's face was contorted in beautiful sorrow as his tongue rolled through the notes, each high and low bringing Lyanna's chest into a tight twist. She felt like her heart might burst from her chest, at the surprise and the sheer emotion bubbling up inside her. 

The crowd around her was equally as entranced with him, even more intrigued at the cloak hiding his face from view. Gold coins and copper coins were thrown at Rhaegar's feet, as well as lopped-off flower heads that landed in soft heaps near his boots, as he sang and sang. 

When the song came to a close, the roar of cheers and applause was deafening, punctuated by the metallic clangs of more coin being thrown over. She could see Rhaegar's mouth laughing beneath his hood as he playfully bowed and bent to gather his money. 

Barristan drifted closer as people reached out to touch Rhaegar, coming to stand by him so no danger came to the hidden prince. Once Rhaegar had most of his coins gathered, he dispersed it into the purses of the other surprised minstrels, leaving nothing for himself but five copper coins. 

With those, he plucked a crimson rose from a vendor and exchanged his coin, then drifted over to Lyanna, bowing dramatically. "For my lady."

Lyanna chuckled, taking the tall rose. Its petals were full and soft and dark as blood, its stem as thorny as her royal crown. "I'm no lady," she quipped, "I'm a princess."

Rhaegar pushed his hood back an inch, just so that she could see his eyes. "Yes," he said, "you are."

Suddenly there were shouts and curses screamed behind Rhaegar as the crowd began to brawl over the leftover coin on the street, a mass of twisting limbs lashing out at one another, absorbing more bodies as the fight grew. Barristan rushed over. 

"Your Highness," he said quickly, "we must go back to the Keep now."

Rhaegar nodded, sobered suddenly, and threaded his fingers through Lyanna's to her surprise. He tugged on her as they descended the street, heading back to the sewers. 

The wind blowing through her hair, racing through Flea Bottom, tipsy from ale and lightning running through her hand, Lyanna felt wild and free. She smiled, a laugh tearing through her teeth. Rhaegar looked back at her, infected by her joy, and began laughing too, their happiness ringing out like bells as they approached the sewers. 

They splashed through the filthy water like children, mucking water up to their knees, as Barristan followed behind soberly. Rhaegar fell in behind Lyanna as she was the only one used to using the dark secret paths.

It took twice as long to make it back to the Keep, Rhaegar and Lyanna giggling the entire way like little children, tripping over the dark and the dirt, but made it they did. Their clothes were sopping wet and stinking of feces, their palms scraped from clumsiness, but they were altogether safe and sound. 

"That," Rhaegar grinned, "was the most fun I've had in a while."

Lyanna's smile was a thing of its own as she clutched her blood rose. "Me, too." And then she remembered _Brave Danny Flint_ and the way Rhaegar's voice had smoothed over every word like hot butter. "You never told me you could sing."

"You never asked," he quipped. "I learned to sing and play music at a very young age."

Her brows raised. "I would never have guessed."

He winked playfully at her. "Now you know." When the Maidenvault came into view, he leaned over to put his mouth at her ear. "Are you tired?"

Her heart rate spiked. "No."

He pressed his hand into the small of her back. "Do you want to see something beautiful?"

She furrowed her brows, but she was intrigued nonetheless by this loose, teasing version of her silver prince. "What?"

His breath tickled her ear. "Go change clothes and meet me at my door in Maegor's."

Rhaegar broke off to head to the Holdfast, but Barristan stayed with her as they ventured into the Maidenvault. 

"You are good for him," Barristan said suddenly as they pushed through the towering entrance. "And you are good to your people. You will make a most excellent queen someday."

Lyanna could feel the heat in her cheeks like a red hot poker. "You are too kind, Ser."

"I call them like I see them, Princess," Barristan smiled, opening her chamber doors for her. She slipped inside. "Oh, and um, thank you for earlier."

She frowned in confusion. 

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "With the whore."

Lyanna chuckled. "Oh, Ser Barristan, you're one of the good ones."

With the door closed after her, Lyanna stripped to her skin, throwing the leather pants and Rhaegar's tunic to the floor in a heap. Then she carefully set her beautiful dark rose in the jug of water sitting on her table. 

She dug through her trunks, pulling out a thin sleeping gown she'd never worn before. The Keep was always too hot to sleep in anything but her own skin, but the nightgown had been a pretty gift from House Hightower. Once the gown was on, she pulled the fur-trimmed cloak from Winterfell around her shoulders and stepped into her boots once more. 

Barristan led her to Maegor's Holdfast where Rhaegar lounged casually outside his chamber door. He'd changed into a red tunic and black pants, and had removed his cloak finally, his silver hair free and tumbling; his tunic ties were unlaced, baring the smooth skin of his collarbone. In his hand was a huge decanter of burgundy liquid. 

"Thank you, Ser Barristan, you may leave us now," Rhaegar said, pushing off of the wall. 

Barristan nodded, sending Lyanna a gentle smile before marching away. Alone, Rhaegar's grin was as glittering and dangerous as a winged snake, his purple eyes dark as night.

"Come on," he said softly, taking her hand again.

* * *

"Where are we going?" Lyanna asked impatiently as they reached the hidden stairwell within Maegor's. 

Rhaegar never answered, only pulled her behind him up the spiraling stairs until they reached a small door. He unclasped his hand from hers to push it open and a sharp gust of wind blew in his face as they climbed through. 

The battlement topping the Holdfast was a magnificent place to behold the beauty of King's Landing, the miles and miles of sloping cityscape. It was easy to see everything from here: the bay glittering like black diamonds, Flea Bottom alight with candles and music. He could see where the Targaryen fleet was docked, could see where Lyanna's secret sewers flowed out, where the orphanage was. 

"Wow," Lyanna breathed, coming to one of the squared openings to see better; the space was large enough that she could sit comfortably if she so wished. 

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

She looked over her shoulder and nodded eagerly. He held up his decanter and asked, "Wine?"

"Yes, please," she grinned, drifting over to him. 

Rhaegar uncorked the drink and took a swig from the bottle before handing it to her. "No cups?" She teased, and then, "What kind is it?" She studied the small particles floating at the bottom. 

"Dornish red," he answered, "warmed and spiced." He'd had his servant make it for him quickly while he'd waited for Lyanna to change.

She put her lips to the decanter and drank deeply from it, coughing lightly when she pulled away. "Whoa."

"Good?" He asked. 

She nodded, drinking again. "Very. Strong though."

They took turns drinking from the decanter, the wine making Rhaegar feel warm and loose, as he pointed out everything there was to view from the battlement, as they talked about their evening sneaking out. 

He could tell that Lyanna was regaining her tipsiness when she fumbled with the clasp of her cloak, complaining about how _hot_ she was beneath the fur. "Help me!" She whined at him. 

He chuckled with fondness, expertly undoing the clasp. Lyanna allowed the cloak to drop to the ground, revealing herself in only a paper thin nightgown. The sight of it made Rhaegar's throat go completely dry, dry as the Dornish desert so that he had to take another drink of the wine. 

"Help me up here," Lyanna demanded, touching her hand to the space on the edge of the battlement. 

Rhaegar bent to pick up her cloak and lay it across the stone. Then he took Lyanna by the waist and went to lift her up, but before he could, she curled into a ball, giggling violently as she tore away from him. 

"Ticklish?" Rhaegar wondered with mischief, slinking even closer. 

She braced herself. "No, I'm not."

"No?" He cocked his head. "So then you won't mind if I do...this?" He lunged at her, sinking his fingers into her belly as she tried to twist away from him. But she had nowhere to go, stuck between Rhaegar and the wall, so she was forced to endure his tickle torture, laughing so hard tears streamed from her eyes. 

"Stop!" She pleaded, "I can't take it anymore!" He was sure her laughter could be heard all the way down in Flea Bottom, but he relieved her nonetheless, pulling away. 

She fisted her hands in his tunic before he could escape though, and tugged him back to her. Her hands turned into claws and she tried for his ribs. When he only laughed at her attempts, Lyanna frowned. "You're not ticklish?"

He shook his head in faux sadness. "No."

"You're boring," she pouted, stumbling back from him. 

"And you're rude, Your Highness," he teased, picking up the almost-empty wine decanter and finishing the last bit of the wine. 

With more power than he thought her capable of, Lyanna jumped up and sat herself on the battlement's edge. "And _you're_ selfish," she said, looking pointedly at the empty wine decanter. 

"I do apologize, _Your Highness_ ," he replied sincerely, resting one arm on the stone at her side. 

She shrugged like she didn't care. "I suppose I'll let you off the hook. You did behave so kindly tonight."

"Tonight?" He repeated. "As opposed to what usually?"

She smiled softly, looking down at her lap. "You're kind always. It was just...really nice to see you having fun for once."

The way she said that made his heart squeeze. "Well, it was nice to _have_ fun for a change." And then he remembered something. He dug into his pocket, pulling out the wrapped apple cake he'd been able to pilfer from the kitchen. "I almost forgot."

He handed the apple cake to Lyanna, smiling as she bit into it instantly. "I love apple cakes," she murmured quietly, "they were one of my favorites at home." He'd have to remember that. 

Rhaegar watched her eat before playfully going in to bite her cake. She snatched it away instantly, narrowing her eyes with a small grin. "Oh no you don't," she intoned. 

Rhaegar pushed his lower lip out in a pout, emboldened by the wine. "Please? I'd hate to have to... _tickle_ you for it."

He dug his fingers into her sides again, coming to stand between her legs where she sat atop the tower edge. She laughed and laughed, dropping her cake in the process, before wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer to rest her face against his. 

"I surrender!" She giggled into his jaw, "please, please!"

Rhaegar smiled, easing his fingers from tickling her but staying on her waist nonetheless, soothing circles into her thin gown. Lyanna pressed her forehead against his as her laughter died, her breath puffing against his mouth. 

The smile on Rhaegar's lips _hurt_ it was so wide, but when Lyanna shifted closer, so that her nose slid along his cheek until it pressed against his, his heart almost stopped. 

The ghosts of her giggles tasted like wine on his mouth, and when he opened his eyes to look down, he wasn't surprised to see her lips a mere half-inch away. Something in the air seemed to shift, and everything felt suddenly heavier, like right before a dark rainfall. 

Lyanna's fingers ghosted up his neck to curl into his hair, and her thighs tightened around his hips where he stood between her legs. He suddenly felt like he might be sick, like his heart was too full for his chest. Lyanna tugged her bottom lip between her teeth hungrily before exhaling gently against Rhaegar's mouth. 

If her kiss earlier that day in front of Jon Connington and the other men had left him feeling like his head was underwater, sitting there with her atop Maegor's, breathing in each other's air, had him feeling like he was drowning. 

Just when he thought he might pass out from the sheer _anticipation_ of it, Lyanna shifted, tipping her chin up and parting her lips. The slight movement made her mouth brush against his light as a feather, but it seemed like the touch was enough to snap both of them into action. 

Rhaegar moved forward the fraction of an inch and molded his mouth to hers, shivering at the way her warmth passed into him, howling for his dragon's blood to kindle. The pressure of her mouth against his was the sexiest, most dangerous thing she'd ever done to him and he felt like he was on fire. 

She pulled back just enough so Rhaegar could see the clear grey in her eyes only to lean forward and kiss him again, this time trapping his bottom lip with her teeth, the same way she bit down on her own all the time. 

The pressure of her teeth sent sharp crackles of pleasure down his stomach and he exhaled heavily into her mouth, tugging her closer to him by her hips. Her tongue was sweet apple cake and spiced wine when he tasted her, and when she moaned into his mouth, it sent vibrations all the way down from his head to his toes. 

Her fingers rooted in his hair tugged and pulled, so that Rhaegar had to actively decide which sensation she was causing him to focus on, overcome by the sheer pleasure of the whole experience. Her tongue was sliding against his, her mouth warm and slick and sweet, her thighs open against his hips. 

When she bit him again, teeth teasing over his bottom lip, he could feel the exact moment she drew blood. They both jumped and separated just enough so that there were a few inches between their mouths. 

There was fire in Lyanna's eyes when she put a finger to his lip, pulling back when it was tipped with his blood. "You're bleeding," she noted, seemingly pleased. 

He swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, tasting metallic red. "It seems that I am." He tried to breathe slowly to calm his racing heart, but it did no good. Just being around _her_ made his chest pound. 

Lyanna stared him down like a wolf that wanted to devour, to destroy, and it made something red and hot lick through his veins. "I think maybe I should go to bed," she whispered, "before I do any more damage to that pretty face."

Rhaegar exhaled heavily, feeling at once both disappointed and grateful. Disappointed because he thought he could probably kiss her like that all day long and never tire of it, and grateful because he was sure that if they continued like that, something unseemly would happen atop the Holdfast battlement and he wasn't sure he wanted to consummate his marriage out in the open for anyone to walk in on. 

Rhaegar helped Lyanna down from the edge and picked up the empty wine decanter and her cloak, leading her back down the staircase and into the Keep where it seemed far hotter than it was outside. 

Rhaegar walked her all the way to the Maidenvault in complete silence, his blood still roaring from their kiss. He was so lost in his thoughts that when they came to her door, he started in surprise. 

Lyanna had one hand on the door, the other fiddling with her dress. She swallowed. "Thank you for everything tonight, for the orphanage and the tavern, and...everything." She ducked her head to hide a secret smile but Rhaegar caught it all the same. 

"Thank you for sharing your secret with me," he murmured, his eyes flicking down to her mouth. She caught the look and raised her brows slightly as if to say _are you going to do it_?

Rhaegar stepped closer to her so that she had to flatten her back against her door. He rested one hand against the door near her head, and used his other hand to grasp her chin gently, lifting it. 

This time their kiss was not hesitant, and Lyanna placed her hands flat against the plane of his chest, her lips soft against his bloodied one. Rhaegar pulled away before he lost his breath entirely, and judging by the glossy sheen of Lyanna's eyes, she wasn't entirely unaffected either. 

"Good night, my prince," she said suddenly, slipping into her bedroom and closing the door. The darkness of the Maidenvault enveloped him entirely. 

Rhaegar was so caught off guard that he didn't speak for a full minute after she was gone. "Sleep well, my princess."


	36. The Deposition

"Damn it!"

Jaime smirked, beckoning his fingers at her arrogantly. "Get up."

Lyanna scowled, clutching at her arm where he'd smacked the flat of his blade. "That fucking hurt," she growled, climbing to her feet. 

"Your mind," Jaime said lazily, "is elsewhere."

She could hardly rebuke that. All she could think about from the moment she woke to the moment the sun set and Jaime had taken her to their secret practicing place, was the night before - of spiced Dornish red and apple cake and full, hot lips sliding over hers. 

"Did you even eat dinner?" Jaime asked, trying to grasp onto an excuse for her swimming head. 

Lyanna frowned. "No, actually."

He huffed, rolling his green eyes. He raked a hand through his golden curls, and spared her a disapproving look. "Good swordsmen do not starve themselves."

"I hardly starve myself," Lyanna scoffed, rolling her wrist. 

Jaime intentionally set his cat eyes on hers, then so, so slow trailed them down her body until she felt like she might erupt into flames. "Could have fooled me."

"Just forget it," she sighed, annoyed at herself for not thinking straight, annoyed at Jaime for being smug, annoyed at _Rhaegar_ for setting her blood on fire. "Good night, Ser Jaime."

Despite her dismissiveness, Jaime followed, taking her sword and hiding it between two loose stones in a wall of the forgotten courtyard they used. Then he caught up to her, a white shadow. 

Lyanna walked all the way back to the Maidenvault, intending to just sleep, but she found that she was wired. She briefly entertained going to Flea Bottom, but the prospect of another nightly adventure there made her think of Rhaegar, and without him, it wouldn't be as fun. 

Instead, she decided to seek out her goodmother. Rhaella would know what to make of these feelings swimming in Lyanna's heart, what to think of the way she could not think straight, let alone sword fight with any semblance of confidence. 

Lyanna quickly changed into a proper dress, and made her way to Maegor's Holdfast, Jaime silent at her back the entire way. When she passed Rhaegar's apartments on the way to Rhaella's, Lyanna had to physically hold herself back from knocking on his door and taking hold of his fine face. 

However, when she turned the corner where Rhaella's chambers were situated, Lyanna was surprised. Posted outside the queen's door were two Kingsguards, stone-faced Ser Jonothor and dark Ser Lewyn. 

Lyanna frowned, confused as to why they were there. Rhaella did not usually have a Kingsguard at her door at night, nor often during the days. And to have two...

"Princess," Jaime murmured, "I think you should wait for another day to see the queen."

Lyanna scowled over her shoulder. "Nonsense."

She approached the door with confidence, but Sers Lewyn and Jonothor stepped together to block the room completely. 

"Excuse me," she said, stepping forward, "I've come to see the queen."

It was Ser Lewyn who spoke, his emotionless voice sending chills down her spine. "Not tonight."

She took another step forward. "It will be quick," she promised, anxiety coiling in her stomach. There was something going on, she just knew it. "Is the queen sick or something? I know she wouldn't mind me stopping by."

"Not tonight," Ser Lewyn repeated in a cold voice. 

Lyanna went to retort something, to throw around her own title, but then she heard it, a shout so desperate, it made her throat close up. " _You're hurting me!_ " The queen wailed, "Please!"

Lyanna's eyes widened and her blood froze. "Is that..."

Rhaella cried out again, and then lower, Aerys' grunts of pleasure. Lyanna felt like she was going to be sick right there on the floor, pride be damned. She knew exactly what she was hearing, and the two Kingsguards were standing there listening as if it was some song and not the agonized pleas of a queen being raped by their king. 

"You have to stop him," Lyanna murmured, half-dazed. "You have to _do_ something! You're supposed to protect _her_ , too!"

Ser Jonothor deigned to give her a reproachful look. "Yes," he agreed, "but not from him."

Lyanna wanted to cry, rage, and storm into the queen's chambers all at once. How could these men call themselves knights, call themselves _men_ as they listened to their queen's degradation and their king's madness? It wasn't right; in fact, it was downright sickening. 

Lyanna went to step forward, to do _something_ , when Jamie wrapped his hand around her elbow. Ser Lewyn noticed immediately, pinning Ser Jaime's hand with a black stare. 

Even though her wolf's blood was howling, Lyanna could see that there was nothing _she_ could do to stop this sickness. But she knew someone who could. 

Without another word, she spun and rushed off, speeding through Maegor's to the one person she needed. Rhaegar's door was closed but there was no guard, so she burst right in, startling Rhaegar just as he was shucking off his tunic. 

He stared wide-eyed at her, utterly shocked at her entrance. "Lyanna," he said. 

She closed the door behind her and came forth. "Rhaegar," she said desperately, "I need your help."

He frowned, concerned at her tone. "What's wrong?"

"It's your mother," she quickly blurted out. "And your father. He's in her chambers and he's..."

Rhaegar's eyes closed and he blew out a sad sigh. His hands came to rake over his face violently as he fell to his chair. All at once, it seemed as if the world sat on his shoulders. "I see."

"No," Lyanna said hurriedly, "you don't. The king, he's _raping_ her!"

Rhaegar looked up at her, looking anguished. "I knew what you meant the first time."

Lyanna's brows furrowed. "Then why are you still sitting there? Why aren't you _doing_ something?"

"What would you have me do?" Rhaegar asked tiredly. It was a completely different prince than the night before. 

"I would have you stop him!" She retorted angrily, mad that she even had to suggest it to him. 

"I cannot," he replied simply, but no less disturbed. 

"Yes, you can! You're the crown prince, his heir, his-"

"None of that matters," he interrupted, "I am not king, therefore I cannot do anything."

Tears blurred Lyanna's vision. "You have to. You have to make him stop!"

Rhaegar stood abruptly, sending the chair flying back. "Don't you think I want to?! Do you even know what would happen if I did that, Lyanna? Do you?"

Lyanna shrunk back, suddenly frightened of his bright flame. 

"If I told my father to stop _anything_ , he'd have me burned without batting an eye. And if I was burned, you'd be a close second. Perhaps even your family, too, if he was feeling particularly vexed. I may be his son, but the king's mind is not _right_ , and I do not wish to play with fire."

Lyanna's heart was thundering and she barely registered any thought as she blurted out, "Why don't you do anything about him then?! Take his crown, send him away, _kill him_?"

Rhaegar's eyes widened and he rushed forth to fit a hand over her mouth. "You can't say things like that," he whispered violently, "if anyone heard it would mean your death. You have to watch your tongue."

Tears slipped out of Lyanna's eyes as she vividly recalled Rhaella's cries. Rhaegar sighed and took his hand from her mouth only to wrap her up in his arms, her cheek pressed to his bare chest. 

"Shh," he soothed her. "I know it's wretched, I know. The first time I found out he was hurting her, I nearly knocked the door down and got myself exiled. Aerys promised there would be no second chances if I tried to intervene again."

Lyanna sobbed into his chest. "We can't let him hurt her though. She's my mother now, too." She pulled back to look up into his eyes, and then said in the smallest of voices, "you have to do something about him."

Rhaegar studied her for a long, intense moment, working his jaw until finally saying, "I am planning something."

Her heart jumped. "What do you mean?"

Rhaegar pulled her away from the door and sat her down on his bed. "You can't tell anyone about this..."

"I won't," she vowed solemnly. 

"I've been planning with several lords and advisors," he said, "planning to depose my father."

Bright hope instantly bloomed in her chest. "When? Who? Wait, why haven't you done this sooner? He _kills_ people, Rhaegar. Why have you let this go on for so long?"

Rhaegar sighed. "I thought perhaps his mind would get better, I thought he might go back to being the father I once knew...I was wrong obviously."

"Well," Lyanna said, "when do you plan to depose him?"

Rhaegar's face grew guarded suddenly. "I don't know."

Lyanna scowled. " _You don't know_? Your father is a madman and you sit here twiddling your thumbs? Citizens get burned, the realms suffer, _your mother_ suffers!"

"I know what happens!" Rhaegar reminded her hotly. "I've been living it far longer than you."

"Then why do you stall?" She demanded. "Why don't you depose him _now_?"

"I can't," Rhaegar supplied vaguely, getting up to stalk around his room. 

" _Why_ though? What is so secret about it that you can't tell me?"

Rhaegar never answered, only increased his pacing, running his hands through his hair roughly, over his face. 

"Tell me!" She pleaded angrily. 

Rhaegar exploded. "Because I need an heir!" Lyanna flinched at the volume of his voice but her heart stopped at the words. "There," he said, "is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Why do you need an heir?" She asked quietly. "Why can't you just overthrow him?"

Rhaegar chuckled without humor, giving her a sad look. "It's not so easy to just depose a king. There will be opposition from his loyalists, a fight from him surely, there may be war even..."

Lyanna waited, her heart in her throat. 

"If something were to happen to me in the midst of taking him down, if I died," Rhaegar said tiredly, "I would need an heir that could sit the throne while a regent rules temporarily in his or her place."

Lyanna swallowed. "What about Viserys?"

"Viserys is well and fine," he said, "as a contingency plan, but I would need an heir from _my_ seed to continue my line."

"You would need an heir," Lyanna repeated woodenly, "from _your seed_ and _my womb_ , you mean."

"You are my wife," he replied, sighing. "I would not have my child a bastard from some random woman."

Lyanna felt as if wildfire had exploded in her brain, and all that was left was debris and dust. How had the day gone so wrong from one night to the next?

It was only hours ago that she had Rhaegar's mouth on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her body. How had things gone so horribly wrong to erase those good feelings and be replaced by horrors?

Lyanna thought of kind Queen Rhaella, her beautiful face, her good heart, the way her smile lit up the room when she laughed. Then she thought of the queen's cries and shouts for mercy, imagined the bruises that would sure mar her lily skin while the Kingsguards pretended not to notice. 

Lyanna thought of the common people that were freely burned at Court for their petty crimes and Aerys' amusement. She'd never personally been forced to watch a burning, but she'd heard the screams before, had heard the sheer _agony_ as their flesh melted from their bodies. 

She thought of her family, and how her heart would surely break if they would ever suffer from such a terrifying fate. It was up to her, little Lyanna Stark, the sole daughter of Winterfell. 

She'd wanted no husband and no children all her life, and while she already had _one_ , it looked as if the fates of the realms and the people rested on the _other_. Rhaegar could wield no power until he had an heir, and his child could only come from _her_. 

"I'll do it," she blurted without thinking. 

Rhaegar froze, turning his head toward her. "What?"

She steeled herself. She could do this; it wasn't as if she was still operating under the assumption she would be a virgin _forever_. "I'll do it. I'll give you an heir."

Rhaegar blinked. "I wasn't trying to manipulate you into do-"

"I know," she cut him off. "This is my choice, and I choose yes."

Rhaegar stood there still as stone staring at her. She stared right back, at those pale features, silver-gold hair and deep purple eyes, tall and slim and fine-boned. She wondered if their child would look like him. 

Then she sucked in a fortifying breath and turned to leave, wrenching open the door. She needed space to deal with her decision. "I will come back tomorrow night and we can...try for an heir."


	37. Joining of the Wolf and the Dragon

Raw heat flooded Rhaegar's skin, boiling beneath the surface like the spray of a dragon's fire. He gripped the pommel of the blunted sword tighter, gaining on Arthur with a vicious ferocity.

With one quick lunge, Rhaegar had twisted his sword between Arthur's hands, yanked, and sent the Kingsguard's sword clattering across the ground.

Arthur blew out a long breath. "A fine match," he conceded, studying Rhaegar's sweaty, anxious face.

The sky above was a queer periwinkle as night continued to descend, and the emerging moon in the sky made Rhaegar's heart thunder.

"Are you alright?" Arthur asked, bending to pick up his sword.

Rhaegar coughed into his hand to avoid answering, and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Rhaegar," Arthur prompted.

"Fine," Rhaegar said, "just tired." That was a blatant lie; he'd never been more awake.

"Could have fooled me," sniped Arthur, "I've never seen you so vicious in practice."

That was true. When Rhaegar usually had something on his mind that he wanted distraction from, he would play his harp or write music. Today, that had been a strategy that was deemed utterly useless.

No matter how quickly his fingers played over the harp strings, how loudly the notes sang, he could not get Lyanna out of his mind - stubborn and strong, promising she would be back the next night to consummate their marriage.

It was what Rhaegar had wanted, what he needed, but he'd never felt so _sick_ before in his life. So, instead of plucking on silver strings, he had joined the Kingsguards in the yard, and used his sword and fight as a distraction. 

But now, night was falling, and there was nowhere left for Rhaegar's mind to run. A sick excitement was coiling in his belly, twisting like a snake. "I'm going to soak in a bath," he announced, rotating his stiff shoulder.

Rhaegar made his way to Maegor's, and requested a hot bath be drawn for him. While the servants skittered away to fetch scalding water, Rhaegar drifted over to the alcove set into the wall of his room, and pulled aside the long, thin red curtain that was meant for granting him privacy while bathing.

Inside the alcove, set into the ground, was a four-feet deep bathing pool made of smooth white marble that was chipped with lapis lazuli and gold flecks.

It took nearly an hour for the bath to be filled, and by that time, darkness had completely descended over King's Landing. The servants lit thirty candles around his room before departing quietly, leaving him to his bath.

Rhaegar stripped off his cold, sweat-soaked clothes, and left them in a pile on the floor. Then he walked into the alcove, and stepped down into the bathing pool, hot water torching his skin immediately.

He knelt in the pool and dunked his entire body in the water, soaking his hair in the heat. His heartbeat was in his throat as he held in his breath, the scalding warmth licking over him like dragonfire. Rhaegar's chest pounded, begging for air, but he stayed for a few more moments and then emerged.

He sucked in a breath, and pushed his wet hair off his face, and then started. Lyanna stared him down, her back against the closed bedroom door. He'd forgotten to pull the red curtain across the alcove's entrance, so his face was unobstructed from her view.

There was a thick silence in the room, so powerful it hurt to bear. The candles in the room flickered gold, and played shadows across Lyanna's dark cloak.

"Hello," Rhaegar said quietly, swallowing down his apprehension.

She said nothing to him, only approached at a maddeningly slow pace until she stood at the entrance to the alcove. "You're bathing."

He looked down to the water. "Yes, I..." He had to swallow down fear this time. "I spent the day in the training yard." There was no emotion on Lyanna's face and it was making his skin crawl. "Just give me a moment and I'll get out."

Lyanna's voice stopped him before he could stand. "No."

His eyes flashed up. "No?"

"No," she repeated, "stay. A bath is a good idea." He frowned but she continued, her words stringing together in a nervous babble. "I mean, isn't a bath always a good idea? But in _this_ sense, it really is. _Not_ that I would know. I've never...but I heard that it makes the first time easier. My ladies gossip a lot and the married ones have talked about...sex. Oh my gods, I want to stop talking now."

A hysterical laugh bubbled up in Rhaegar's chest but he forced himself to keep it down. "You...want to...do this _in the bath_?"

She gave him a short nod. "Is that a problem?"

"No," he was quick to say, even through his confusion. Didn't ladies, _princesses_ , dream of being laid down on a featherbed?

"Good, now turn around."

Rhaegar did as he was told, and turned to face the back of the alcove. He could hear the rustle of her clothes, as well as the twin thuds of her boots hitting the floor. Then, gently, there was a disturbance in the water.

Rhaegar turned, sitting upon the seat inlaid around the perimeter of the bath, the water coming up to his ribs. Lyanna wore a sleeping shift that came to the middle of her thighs, its material thin and white - pure. It made Rhaegar realize just how naked and wet he was by comparison.

"You're wearing a nightgown?" He asked doubtfully.

"Yes," she snapped, bending so that the bottom half of her shift turned translucent, "I don't want you to see me naked." Pink crawled up her neck.

 _I'm about to be inside you_ , he thought. "Oh," he said. 

She let the water soak her up to her ribs, as she idly played her fingers over the surface of the bath. Her cheeks were red, but Rhaegar couldn't tell if that was from the bath's heat or her nervousness.

She seemed to be trying to concentrate on her breathing, in and out, in and out. The quiet was terribly uncomfortable, so much so that Rhaegar felt a sharp ball of anxiety lodge itself in his throat. He wanted to move, but if he did so, attention would be drawn to his naked body, and she was already making him feel so discomfited.

"So," she said without emotion, "how do we do this?" She glanced up at him beneath her lashes, and a sudden chill racked his body despite the hot water.

"You don't know...I mean, did no one ever explain to you how... _this_ works?" He asked quietly, frowning. 

"I know how sex works," she retorted sharply, narrowing her eyes. "I meant, how are we going to do it in here?"

 _You insisted we stay in the bath_ , he thought. Her nervousness was translating into biting remarks and it was putting Rhaegar on edge. He wanted so badly just to have her full trust, to have her decidedly less tense, less high-strung. 

"Come here," he said softly. He remembered kissing her only a couple of nights ago, the sheer pleasure that had hummed through his body; if they could kiss like _that_ , surely their sex couldn't be bad?

Lyanna bit her lip, wading through the water carefully over to him. When she floated before him, he gently grabbed her by the waist and pulled her forward, onto his lap so that she straddled him.

He heard her gasp, but the feel of her slick skin sliding against his thighs was perhaps better than anything he'd ever felt and it was difficult to focus; her face was only inches away from his in this position, but he could see how skeptical she was in those grey, grey eyes.

She swallowed audibly. "Ready then?"

Rhaegar shook his head lightly. "Not yet." He dragged his hands from her waist and down her hips. "I need to...get you ready." He tried hard to push down his humiliation at having to say that aloud.

Her brows furrowed. "Ready? I'm over here, I'm ready."

"No, not 'ready'," he amended. He really hated to be vulgar, but it was better to be completely clear with Lyanna. "I need to get you," and then quieter, "wet, or this is going to hurt much worse."

Lyanna frowned. "Wet?" She repeated, looking down at herself. "I'm completely soaked, what's that even supposed to mean?"

Rhaegar closed his eyes; well, she didn't know how sex worked _completely_. He struggled for some answer, but the more he thought, the cloudier his brain got. He sighed, opened his eyes, and leaned the back of his head against the edge of the bath. 

"I want to touch you," he murmured. Her brows raised in surprise and the skin over her heart jumped with each beat. "Can I?"

Her lips parted and she studied him for a long time - so long, in fact, he thought she'd shut down the entire idea of consummating and decide to walk away. Instead, she ran her teeth over her lip and nodded.

Her consent sent an odd thrill through him, and gentle sparks of pleasure slithered through him. Rhaegar dragged his hands slowly down her thighs, reveling in the smoothness; her shift had ridden up just slightly, enough so he could trail one hand between her legs.

She was stiff with anticipation and nerves. He rubbed his thumb slowly at the inside of her thigh, giving her time to come to terms with what he was about to do. Her eyes fell closed and she squeezed them shut just before he slid two fingers against her most sensitive flesh, the silky folds between her legs.

Lyanna immediately blew out a shuddering breath, and her mouth lifted in surprised satisfaction.

He could have smiled at how surprisingly... _pleased_ she looked, but what he knew of Lyanna tempered his satisfaction. She could go from hot to cold in less than a minute, and for this to work, he had to be careful. 

So he killed his smile and instead focused on running his fingers between her legs, slowly so as not to push her too far, gently to make her feel good. She was soft as satin and through the thin water, he could feel a slickness growing.

His heart, in turn, hammered, slightly disbelieving that he was finally touching her, Lyanna, touching _his wife_. Her breathing was coming in short little spurts, puffs of breath mingling with the steam of the bath water that rose like a desert mirage. 

Though she was utterly quiet, Rhaegar could make out little sounds, noises she probably wasn't meaning to make at all. Mewling, the slightest of moans, catches of breath in her throat.

Her face was flushed becomingly, her eyes still shut, red lips parted and full. He considered leaning forward, fitting his mouth to hers, a continuance to what she'd started only two days before in front of his men, and then again that night. But he didn't.

She smelled like sour green apples, tart and sweet; he wondered if she tasted like it too.

The hands that previously lay at her side, useless in the water, had since come to rest on either side of his neck. Her grip wasn't painful, but her fingers bit into his skin the longer his hand was under her.

She was wet, and in the way that _definitely_ mattered. His fingers slipped back and forth between her legs, coming to circle that little nub at the top of her cunt that seemed to cause her pleasure every time he touched it. 

Before he could realize what he was doing, he slipped his finger forward and curled it slowly inside her heat. Her jaw dropped open, her eyes squeezing, but where he expected a reprimand only came a low moan of keen pleasure.

The sound sent jolts down his stomach and straight to his cock. With a small hint of embarrassment, he realized she could probably feel him where she straddled his lap, hard against her thighs.

But Lyanna was too busy enjoying his fingers inside her, her hips grinding into him as he worked her over. Rhaegar wondered if he had ever been so turned on in his life; and it was all because his wife apparently liked the way he touched her.

There was something new and frenzied to the way that Lyanna rolled her hips into his hand, her movements jerky and uncontrolled. He watched her, rubbing at her cunt with controlled precision, realizing with a heat wave of pride that she was on the verge of coming.

She was panting heavily, her cheeks blazing and lips swollen. Her fingers smoothed up his neck to take root in his hair. She seemed just on the precipice, just about to explode, when-

"Stop," she said, wrapping one hand around his wrist. Her eyes were open and glassy, bright and feverish.

"Stop?" He repeated. He'd been so close to making her feel good, he was sure of it. The flush of her skin, her short breaths, the wetness between her thighs. She was about to have an orgasm, but stopped him right before he could give it to her.

"Yes," she replied breathlessly, "let's get this done with."

He wanted to object. _I was about to make you feel good_ , he wanted to say, but Lyanna didn't like objections and he didn't like upsetting her. So he withdrew his hand from her, and straightened up where he had wilted in his seat. 

Lyanna cleared her throat, looking more than a little dazed, and impatiently rucked up the bottom half of her shift that was heavy with saturation. "Ready?" She asked.

He looked at her, feeling fevered and wanting to jump out of his skin. Then he looked down, grabbing the shaft of his cock in one hand while Lyanna lifted up on her knees. He positioned himself exactly where his fingers had been a moment ago, the sensation of her wet entrance making his eyes roll back in his head.

"Slow," he heard himself say breathlessly just before his head knocked back.

Lyanna's hips shifted forward a bit, and then she was sliding down onto him, the last fractions of his cock disappearing inside of her slowly as she let out a whine.

Rhaegar's eyes popped open and he lifted his head to look at her. Her beautiful face was screwed up, her eyes slitted and her lips pinched. "What's wrong?" He asked stupidly.

"It _hurts_ ," she breathed, widening her eyes so that all Rhaegar could see was grey, grey, grey. 

He frowned sympathetically and rubbed a hand up her ribs. "I know." He _didn't_ know. Just being inside of her, not moving at all, felt fucking fantastic. But he knew that for girls, the first time always hurt. "I'm sorry."

"You should be," she griped, "you're too _big_."

While any other time that would have had him feeling smug, all he could focus on was his pleasure and her pain. "C'mere," he whispered half a second before he bent forward and kissed her.

Despite her physical discomfort and initial surprise, Lyanna responded immediately, sliding her tongue into his mouth. He felt _hungry_. He wanted to completely devour her, and he moved his mouth from hers and went to press his lips into the damp skin of her throat. 

Then, her hips began to move. Barely, at first, until Rhaegar put his hands on the swell of her hips and showed her how to move, then with a surprising pattern, grinding into him lazily as he kissed and sucked and licked and bit down her neck and across her collarbones.

The pleasure she was causing him by grinding up and down in his lap was nearly insurmountable. The feeling of being inside of her, moving inside of her, seemed to go on and on, so sharp and dominant that it was all he could do to lift his chin and seek her mouth again.

Her lips were warm and slick and sweet, sliding over his with a ferocious hunger that had him responding in kind, pressing his teeth into her bottom lip lazily before dragging his tongue over it.

There were so many sensations crawling over him - her lips, her tongue, her teeth, her hands, her terribly tight cunt sliding around him - that he didn't realize he was about to tip over the edge until right before the pleasure rendered him paralyzed.

It was both the sharpest and softest thing he'd ever felt, starting at the bottom of his belly and then erupting into a million different tendrils of fiery ecstasy that licked down his legs, through his arms, up his chest. He moaned low and guttural, biting the bottom of her lip as he rode out his pleasure with panting breaths, filling her with his seed. 

And just as soon as it had come, it disappeared, leaving him a lank mess of jellied limbs and fried wits. Lyanna kissed him softly, uncurling her fingers from his hair and pulled back to look in his eyes. 

Speechless, she could only breathe, "Oh."


	38. The Lionknight and the Ice Princess' Secret

"What about you, Your Highness, is there a little prince or princess on the way?"

Lyanna bristled, her eyes flashing up to meet Johanna's green ones. The little Riverlands lady-in-waiting smiled back. Suddenly Lyanna's mind flashed back to hers and Rhaegar's one and only coupling only a few days prior; she wondered how far and wide gossip spread around the Keep. 

"I'm not sure," Lyanna admitted with red cheeks. Ser Jaime did his best to be invisible but even Lyanna caught his eyes stray to her flat stomach. 

The other ladies at the tea table in the gardens giggled, a sound that grated on Lyanna's nerves. As soon as she had woken that morning, Johanna had cornered Lyanna, insisting she spend the day sipping tea and gossiping amongst the flowers and shrubs; and even Lyanna could not escape Johanna's determination. 

But now sitting amongst the ladies, being forced to think of her uncertain future, Lyanna was miserable. She was as sick thinking about the prospect of being pregnant as she was thinking of Aerys staying on the throne for a long, long time. 

Lyanna didn't know the first thing about being a mother, what it took, what to be. Her own mother had died when she was young, so all she'd had was her father, her brothers, Old Nan, and the Northerners around Winterfell. 

Lyanna knew how to be a _father_ , sure, but a mother, no. 

She was not kind and gentle like Rhaella, did not have the patience it took to raise a child. She was just barely out of childhood herself; just before going to Harrenhal, she'd been playing at sticks and swords with Benjen in the godswood, playing pranks on Brandon, being spoiled by Ned and her father. 

She sighed, closing her eyes. "Your Highness," Ser Jaime exclaimed with faux concern, "are you alright?"

Lyanna opened her eyes and looked up at him with fond exasperation. Jaime could never be a mummer, he was far too obvious an actor; but her ladies were so enamored by his golden beauty, they didn't realize he was attempting to bail her out. 

"Oh," Lyanna played along, "I'm just so hot out here with the sun glaring down on me."

"Come," he said with an overabundance of gentle concern, so different from his usual casual arrogance, "your ladies must forgive you retire."

"Of course!" Her ladies jumped in to say, watching after Lyanna with worry as Jaime helped her from her chair. "Feel better!" They called after her. 

When they were a fair bit away, Lyanna blew out a relieved sigh and Jaime's face melted from concern to proud lion. 

"If being a Kingsguard doesn't work out, I could always go to the Free Cities and make my way as a mummer," he said, smiling. 

Lyanna scoffed. "And you would never eat again."

He threw her a smug look. "I'll have you know, those ladies of yours ate my performance right up."

"That's because," she retorted, "they're too mesmerized by your face. If you were an ugly man, they'd have seen through you like water."

"Well," he shrugged, leading her back to the Maidenvault, "at least I have my looks."

She snorted. "And your humility." Then she stopped, frowning at the double doors of her vaulted home. "No," she said, "I don't want to go back to my room."

Jaime waited. "Where then? It's too early and bright for your lessons."

"The godswood," she said immediately, "I'd like to pray."

She yearned for home, for the comfort of her father's arms, Benjen's laughter, Ned's soft smile, Brandon's grin. She was truly a woman now, wedded and bedded, but she wished she were still a child. To be able to run around Winterfell, forming snowballs to hurl at Benjen, sitting at Old Nan's feet for a scary story - what she wouldn't give to have that once more. 

But there was no turning back. Rhaegar had lay his claim on her, _in_ her, and she might possibly be carrying the tiniest seed of a little prince or princess. 

Lyanna wondered if they would need to try again, or if once was enough. She thought about going to ask Rhaella, but the thought of sitting with the queen, playing stupid about the bruises and bites that surely were displayed like a collage over Rhaella's skin, made her think treasonous, _treasonous_ thoughts. 

Instead, she sought the peace of the godswood, though there was no weirwood. The heart tree in the castle's godswood was a great oak that crawled with overgrowth of smokeberry vines. It felt like blasphemy to kneel before it, like she was betraying the old gods to pray before anything but a weirwood. 

Outside the godswood, Jaime stood post, giving her the rare privacy she was no longer afforded. Rhaegar had insisted that Lyanna have a Kingsguard with her during the days to protect her, in case they had conceived that first and only time they'd coupled. And if she had to have someone follow her all times of the day, well, Ser Jaime was the least imposing and she didn't mind requesting him. 

She had enough leverage over him to get him to comply with most of her wishes anyway. 

At the brown heart tree, Lyanna knelt, her knees cushioned by the growth of dragon's breath. She sat on her heels and placed her hands against the bark of the tree. 

"Old gods," she prayed, "hear me. Please let me be pregnant. _Please_." She sighed, remembering Rhaella's screams of distress, a memory that strongly overshadowed her fear of being a mother. She needed King Aerys to be gone. Then, in a whisper, "Let Rhaegar's plan work. Let him overthrow his father."

The air was still and stifling, no answer from her gods. Lyanna felt an immense sadness fill her heart, heavy in her chest. She clutched tighter at the plane of the heart tree. "And if he can't, if his plan doesn't work...please send me a hero to kill the mad king."

The tree branches shifted as a strong wind blew.

* * *

Brandon Stark's wedding to Lady Catelyn Tully was soon, only a few weeks away. And despite his hesitance to do so, Rhaegar knew his father would not suffer to allow him and Lyanna to leave without a royal permit. 

So he swallowed his pride, Arthur at his side, and made his way to the king's chambers. The day was alive with the music of birds and chattering, the rush of wind over stone. Ahead was the corner that separated the king's rooms from the rest of Maegor's. 

Though, when Rhaegar approached, it was the sly voices of Ser Lewyn and Ser Jonothor that reached his ears, the sound of Lyanna's name on Lewyn's lips. 

The two stood outside Aerys' doors, lost in conversation. Rhaegar stopped, backing up to hide himself behind the corner. Arthur frowned, following his lead. "What are you doing?" He whispered. 

Rhaegar held a hand up; he couldn't have their presence made known until he realized why Ser Lewyn was talking about Lyanna. 

"Please, it's funny if anything," Lewyn chuckled darkly, the sound of it humored. 

"It's treason, it is," Jonothor shot back. 

"Nothing will come of it," Lewyn quipped lazily, "the girl only _just_ visited Prince Rhaegar's chambers. Though I suppose, if she was pregnant, she wouldn't have to worry about _who_ she gave herself to."

"Ser Jaime though," Jonothor said, "he wouldn't. He wants to be Arthur Dayne too badly. He'd never besmirch his honor to lay with the prince's wife."

"Have you seen Jaime and the princess together?" Lewyn shot back. "There's _something_ going on there. No other Kingsguard whispers in her ear like that."

Blood rushed to Rhaegar's head, and his heart beat hard, begging for blood, begging for oxygen. He'd never felt so cold in his life. What the hells were they talking about?

"Jaime Lannister fancies himself Prince Aemon," Lewyn sneered, snorting. "I say let him play Dragonknight. So long as Rhaegar's heir doesn't come out golden and green, all is well."

The guards' talk was treasonous gossip, and yet it made something ugly and paranoid bloom within him. Rhaegar couldn't listen to one more word. He swiveled, Arthur following him. "Rhaegar," he said softly. 

Rhaegar focused on breathing in and out steadily, thoughts swirling through his head at top speed. He'd never even thought of Lyanna truly acting on being unfaithful to him, never mind with a Kingsguard of his own. 

But then, like a black cloud, he recalled how Lyanna had so specifically asked for Ser Jaime as her full-time guard, an odd request given Rhaegar had not thought the two were well acquainted. At the time, he'd brushed it off, thinking nothing more of it. But now...

Jaime Lannister, golden and beautiful, sixteen, the same age as Lyanna. For a sudden, terrible moment, all Rhaegar could think was how beautiful they would be together, the wolf and the lion, no matter if the former was a dragon's and the latter wore a white cloak. 

Rhaegar strode out of Maegor's and to the Maidenvault, hoping to be soothed by his wife's presence, but his search proved fruitless. Lyanna was not in her room. When he came out of the Maidenvault, Arthur hot on his heels, Rhaegar caught sight of Johanna Mallister, one of Lyanna's ladies-in-waiting, strolling through the halls on the arm of an unknown knight. 

"Lady Johanna," he called. 

She turned, green eyes flashing. "My prince," she curtsied, smiling politely. 

"Have you seen my wife today? I can't seem to find her."

Johanna frowned. "She was in the gardens with us earlier, but she did not feel well, so Ser Jaime escorted her away."

Johanna's knight stepped forward, brown eyes shining and sincere. "I saw the princess heading toward the godswood earlier, Your Highness. With Ser Jaime Lannister."

Rhaegar nodded his head. "Thank you," he said quickly, offering thanks and a farewell to Johanna, too, before making his way to the Keep's godswood. 

Outside the day burned hot, the sun a golden fireball in the sky, blazing with hellish intensity. It warmed Rhaegar to his core, and at once, he felt his unease let up just a bit. Perhaps he'd let his mind run away from him...perhaps. 

"Rhaegar," Arthur tried again, "Lewyn has not been right since his sister died. I do not think he knew what he was saying."

"And yet he said it all the same," Rhaegar replied wearily. "There has to be _some_ basis for his gossip."

"Ser Jaime is young," Arthur began to say. 

"As is Lyanna," Rhaegar inserted. There was a queer insecurity burrowing in his heart. Perhaps he was too old for Lyanna, perhaps she yearned for a young heart like herself. And the young Lannister lion knight was no farm boy to sneer at. 

It was as Lady Johanna's knight had said. At the godswood entrance, Jaime stood, tall and golden, burning in his white enameled armor, unaware of the prince's impending approach down the pathway. Rhaegar could practically see his cat green eyes, even from the distance. 

Then, Lyanna emerged from the trees, looking tired and sad, the bottom of her skirts dusted with the filth of the forest. Rhaegar stopped. Jaime sent Lyanna an arrogant lopsided grin, murmured something Rhaegar could not hear from so far away, and held out an elbow in exaggerated chivalry. 

Rhaegar expected Lyanna to respond with an eye roll or a huff and stomp away, but she did neither. Instead, she put on a small, amused smirk and took the lion's arm, walking with him down the other path entrance to the castle. 

Rhaegar frowned, sickness swimming in his throat as he imagined little dark-haired wolf pups with green eyes and claws. Was Ser Jaime truly playing Dragonknight and Lyanna, Queen Naerys? Or did the little wolf and the lion have some sort of secret?


	39. A Stark Folly

"You should take this dress with you, Your Highness. It would be lovely to wear at the wedding." Johanna held up the dress of wine-colored velvet, its skirt sweeping the floor. It was a gown that Rhaegar himself had gifted Lyanna with only a few days ago, presenting it to her with a soft smile, explaining how the color was becoming against her fair skin. 

"Maybe I will," Lyanna murmured, lying back in bed with her head against the pillows. The day was hot, causing sweat to gather on her skin like a thousand crystal beads, and she did not want to think of velvet. 

They would soon leave for Riverrun, to witness Brandon's marriage to Lady Catelyn. Lyanna was tired, but excited to see her father and Brandon and Ned; Benjen was to be the "Stark in Winterfell", and that fact was the only thing keeping her from being _truly_ happy. 

Lyanna sat up, sweat dripping down her spine. "Johanna," she called, "could you please tell the servants to draw me a bath in the copper tub. _Cold_ water please."

Johanna nodded seriously and flitted off. She was back a few minutes later, servants in her wake. Lyanna lay abed as they prepared her cold bath, trying to focus on how wonderful it would feel to finally be _cool_ again. Wolves were not made for the South, it seemed. 

When they finished, the servants left her and Johanna helped Lyanna strip before leaving her as well. Naked, she submerged herself in the cold bath, the rim of the copper tub coming up to her chin. 

It felt like the snows of Winterfell against her skin, or the slick surface of the icicles that skirted the roof of the Great Hall. The cold bath reminded her of day-racing through the godswood, white winds whipping at her face, of bright winter days with feet and feet of snow covering every layer of land and stone. 

She sighed happily, content for once in this hellscape. Then, without thinking, she looked down at her stomach. It was as flat as ever, the skin taut and pale, but something queer stirred in Lyanna's heart the longer she stared. 

For the first time since she'd coupled with Rhaegar, she realized that there could be another life growing in her belly, not just a wish or a hope or a prayer, but true life, smaller than a seed, waiting to share her body like it was hearth and home. 

She supposed it would be like that. If she and Rhaegar had conceived on their first and only try, she would soon be housing and feeding a baby with her body - a child whose blood would run with ice and fire. 

The sudden knocking at the door was as unwelcome as the mental image of her dream the night before: her belly huge and swollen and veined with red, blood and birth seeping from between her thighs. She sank deeper into the bath, curling her body into itself, and propped her chin against the tub's lip. "Enter!" 

The door creaked open and Rhaegar stepped through, dressed in simple clothes, a white tunic and plain breeches. And yet still, the sight of him stirred heat in her stomach and sent a thrill through her; she wondered if this was the way Robert Baratheon had felt the first time he'd lain with a woman, cursed with a bodily thirst that was destined to be unquenched for all time no matter how many times he took his fill. 

Lyanna had been so busy in her head that she hadn't noticed the _expression_ her husband wore, a mask of wariness and sympathy. She frowned. "What is it?"

He suddenly seemed aware that she was soaking in the tub, though he could see nothing from how she was curled in on herself behind the tub's tall sides. "My princess," he began lowly, in a reverent sigh. In his hand was an opened raven's scroll. 

The sight of the coiled parchment made dread colder than her bath water wash over her. "Tell me," she urged, a thousand and one possibilities running through her head, from her father being dead to Benjen ill to Ned exiled. 

"Your brother," Rhaegar said. Her heart stopped. "He's left Winterfell."

Lyanna narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin. "Wait, _which_ brother?" If Benjen had gone and joined the Night's Watch, she would kill him, oh she would. That had been _their_ dream together, and it wasn't his alone to take. 

"Brandon," Rhaegar said instead, shocking her. 

Lyanna was so confused. "Well, where did he go?" Brandon had often ridden away from home to spend a week or two with Winterfell's bannermen. She remembered Barbrey Dustin and how much Brandon had...enjoyed the lady. Well, enjoyed what was between her thighs was more like it.

Rhaegar took a seat on one of Lyanna's chairs, far enough that she still had her modesty, but close enough that she could read the utter judgment in his eyes. "The letter says that Brandon did not say specifically where he was going, but before he left, he made sure to renounce his rights as heir to Winterfell."

Lyanna gripped the edge of the tub, her ire and confusion growing into a dizzying whirl. Where only a few questions had been borne on her tongue, now a hundred lived. "Brandon wouldn't just _leave_ Winterfell," she objected weakly. "That's his home, his life, his inheritance." A thought struck her. "He's to marry Lady Catelyn in a few weeks."

Rhaegar glanced up at her, grinding down on his jaw. "He renounced his right to her as well. Your father wrote me so that I could pass on the news to you."

Lyanna scowled hard. This had to be a horrible jest - one of Brandon's stupid japes that he liked to tell. "Tell me the rest," she commanded in a voice like iron. 

Rhaegar took a breath, sending her a wary look, but continued. "It seems that your brother got a child on a lady of the South, though he would not say who."

She interjected quickly. "A lady of the South? Brandon doesn't even fraternize with Southerners! He-" And then she stopped, a rock of realization settling low in her belly. 

She didn't know _what_ made her recall Dorne, but one moment she was batting away dizzying thoughts of denial, and the next, her mind's eye was conjuring up an image of a dark-haired woman with deep purple eyes, and sickness in her belly. Princess Elia's friend, Lady Ashara, sister to Ser Arthur Dayne. 

Lyanna recalled the way the lady of Starfall had seemed so sick, so nauseated and gaunt. But the way she had mentioned Brandon, with a fond smile and sparkle in her eyes, just before Lyanna had unthinkingly suggested the lady's ailment might be pregnancy...

 _Oh, Brandon_...

"Lyanna, are you alright?" Rhaegar asked, studying her closely. 

She glanced up, startled at his voice. No matter if her realization was right or wrong, if it was Ashara that Brandon rode to, she would not betray him. Married or not, she was still a wolf and her brother was her pack. 

"Fine," she assured Rhaegar, "continue."

Rhaegar gave her an odd look but resumed with what he had been saying. "Your brother left a letter explaining his choice in his chambers, and left Winterfell before the sun rose. Your father sent men out to search for him, but it seems your brother is a most excellent rider and outrode them."

 _Like me_ , Lyanna thought dizzily. She could scarcely believe this was happening. Brandon, her wild Brandon, who had taught her how to ride, and throw a dagger, how to sneak beneath Father's nose, where to find the hidden caches of wine. 

Their father had always said that of his children, only Brandon and Lyanna were wolf-blooded, wild and impulsive beyond repair. _It will send you to an early grave if you don't temper it_ , Father reminded them constantly, solemnly. 

"Poor Lady Catelyn," was what came out of her mouth though. To be humiliated so, just shy a few weeks of their marriage; Lady Catelyn had seemed so excited to wed Brandon when she danced in his arms at Harrenhal, blushing and bright-eyed. And now, to have that dream yanked away and by a bastard-born pregnancy... Even if Lyanna herself had never desired marriage, she knew a slight when she saw it, and she pitied the pretty red-haired maid. 

Lord Hoster Tully would take the slight none too kindly either. She wondered if there would be civil unrest between the two Houses, if the trout would find a way to punish the wolves for this insult. 

The thought made her suddenly angry, and she knew that if House Tully came after her family, she would raise the ire of dragons and wolves alike. 

"There's more," Rhaegar said, clearing his throat. "Your brother, Eddard, by official decree is now heir to the North. And in Brandon's absence, he has been offered to marry Catelyn of Riverrun." Well, those ends had been tied up neatly. 

_Ned_ , Lyanna thought at once, _sweet Ned. Heir to Winterfell._ It was a queer thought, though Lyanna could picture her solemn brother, serious and kind, ruling the lands of winter. He was just and honorable, but to a fault. 

Of course he would step up to correct Brandon's follies, would marry any bride to erase the shame brought on their name. 

"Is the wedding still going to happen as scheduled?"

Rhaegar nodded. "We still leave within the week," he told her. 

Lyanna blew out a breath. She wanted to be angry, she truly did. But if Brandon left for love, how could she begrudge him, her wild wolf? How often had she shuddered to think of marrying Robert Baratheon, and imagined playing at a knight instead? 

Well, she'd managed to ditch the former, and while she would never be a true knight, she'd ridden in the greatest tourney that was ever held and was taught swordplay by one of the finest swords the realms had ever seen, even if he was a _Lannister_. 

"Lord Eddard," she tested it out on her tongue, "Warden of the North." The sound of it made her smile faintly. 

Rhaegar smiled too. "He will make a fine lord."

Lyanna hoped so, though Brandon had been the one groomed from birth to hold Winterfell's lands and men. She wondered if she could sneak a message to Starfall, to the Lady Ashara, to inquire about her brother. She wondered if Ser Arthur knew. 

"There was something else I wanted to speak with you about," Rhaegar broached slowly. 

The gravity in his voice made her pause. "About...?" What else could there be? Had Benjen also gotten some Southron maid pregnant?

"Your trips to Flea Bottom," Rhaegar said instead, catching her off guard. 

"What about them?"

"I don't want you going anymore."

Her jaw dropped. "No, you can't do that!" How _could_ he? He knew how much visiting the orphanage meant to her, and now that she'd shared her secret with him, he meant to take it away?

He held up a hand. " _Alone._ I don't want you going _alone_ anymore."

She misliked the sound of that. It sounded a lot like the shackles of chains. "Why not? I've done it many times alone, and remain unscathed."

Rhaegar squeezed his eyes closed. "This is different," he told her. He opened his eyes just as a shaft of sunlight poured through her window, lighting them to jewels. "If we...conceived the other night, I want to take any and all measures to keep you safe. Overbearing or not."

She hadn't thought of that. Only recently had she come to terms what being a mother would truly entail, what it would _take_. It was too soon to know if she was with child, but she realized that Rhaegar was right, no matter if she liked it or not - if she was carrying his heir, it was part of her duty to protect it. 

"I'd like you to take a retinue of guards if and when you go," he said seriously into her silence. 

Lyanna frowned, imagining a full host of Gold Cloaks trailing after her through the winding streets of King's Landing and below. "Can I not just take Ser Jaime with me?"

Something in Rhaegar's eyes hardened at the sound of the lion's name, but he still responded kindly. "He's not enough."

"He is!" She insisted. Ser Jaime alone, she could handle, perhaps even enjoy in Flea Bottom; she imagined the way his golden mouth would sneer at the bowls o' brown being sold in the streets, the naked children skirting around his feet. "Ser Jaime could cut down any person who threatened me."

Rhaegar worked his jaw, staring at her long and hard, observing her with such intent that it made her hot, even in the ice bath. "Perhaps I should assign you another Kingsguard. Ser Oswell, perhaps."

"No!" She said quickly, too quickly. With Jaime at her side all day, he had taken to giving her sword lessons when the sun shined, off in a forgotten courtyard in an unused part of the Keep. If Jaime was taken away, so were her lessons. 

"No?" Rhaegar tilted his head, curious. 

Lyanna fought to keep her face neutral. One misspoken word and their entire deal would be laid bare. "I just mean, _you_ need Oswell more than I do. He's your friend, is he not? And you'll be needing your friends the closer we get to..." _Overthrowing your king father._

Rhaegar seemed to understand, though he did not seem to like it as well as she did. Lyanna wondered what the golden lion had done to earn his mistrust. "Very well then, you may keep Ser Jaime. But you will take twenty guards with you when you go out to Flea Bottom. That isn't a negotiation."

There was something in his face that made Lyanna think twice before protesting again. At least she got to keep her secret sword lessons. "Okay."

Rhaegar stood and went to leave, but before he got to the door, he turned back around and strode to the tub with purpose, bending so that he crouched before her face where her chin still rested on the edge of the tub. 

Up close - _so close_ \- his eyes were magnificent, like the mixture of sparkling amethysts and the rich blue of the sea. "I don't want to steal your freedom," he murmured. "And I want you to be happy. But...if you and I made a child together, I need you _and_ our baby safe and unhurt." He dragged his eyes painfully slow down to her mouth. "Do you understand?"

Entranced, hardly listening, she nodded. Rhaegar sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, tugging it between his teeth briefly before releasing it; it was plump and red and slick from his tongue and teeth. 

Resting one hand on top of hers where it was curled over the edge of the tub, and sliding the other through the wet strands of her hair, Rhaegar bent forward, hesitating only slightly, before finally pushing his mouth against hers, exhaling in relief. 

When his lips touched hers, a lightning bolt of heat ran through her mouth and down her body, with roots of fire that extended through her arms and fingers, down her belly and legs, all the way to her toes. 

And then he pulled back, eyes hooded and glassy. "I'll leave you to your bath, Princess." He averted his eyes when he stood and turned, and left her chambers without a single word. In the emptiness, she did not think on her brother's whims or velvet gowns or capital heat. 

All she thought on was the dragonfire her husband seemed to kindle within her.


	40. Riverrun

Had the sky ever been so lovely, like blue marble veined with white? Had the wind ever been so cool, carrying on it the scent of rich riverlands teeming with life? Had a horse ever been so quick, racing over packed green earth and beaten road and wet leaves?

Lyanna thought it had not. Smoke between her thighs, tall and swift and powerful, Lyanna raced far ahead of their traveling party, her horse edging out each soldier and guard until they were almost a league behind her. 

How easy would it be to veer off-road, galloping away until she lost herself in the earth? But no, she wouldn't do that. She was too close. Too close to family for the first time in so long. 

They'd been going for days, for weeks, riding hard for Riverrun, though none so hard as Lyanna. Rhaegar gave her wary looks each morning upon her mounting, as if to say, _Careful now, you could be carrying my child._

In their weeks of travel to and through the Riverlands, Lyanna found herself watching her husband closely: the way he spoke with Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell, his ever faithful companions, the way he plucked at the small silver harp that was the likeness of a much larger one at the Red Keep, singing a sad song in low tones. 

She wondered if one man had ever been so beautiful, her silver prince. Only Jaime was a close comparison with his smug golden looks, and yet Rhaegar still shined brighter, like polished steel. 

Every night that they feasted upon dinner, Lyanna watched him, unfazed by the surprised and confused looks Rhaegar shot her back when he caught her staring. 

No matter how much the concept of actually being pregnant frightened her, she knew that _not_ being pregnant was worse - for the longer it took her to get with child, the longer Rhaegar was delayed in taking down his mad father. 

And yet they traveled with a large slew of Targaryen guards, Oswell and Arthur and Jaime, as well as a few of Lyanna's ladies-in-waiting who rode in a royal carriage meant for her that she abandoned every morn. 

She might have broached the subject with Rhaegar, even perhaps found his private tent beneath the stars, but she couldn't bear the shame of coupling with him to the ears of their many companions. Instead, she kept her thoughts and desires to herself, locked tight to her chest, and rode Smoke hard across land and road, day and dark, with naught but the wind to tickle her ears. 

When they finally came upon Riverrun weeks after their departure of the capital, Lyanna felt naked hope in her chest. She eyed the castle with wide, bright eyes, knowing her father and brother lay just within her reach. All she had to do was grasp. 

They were met in the entrance yard of Riverrun, a long line of tall, straight-backed people awaiting their arrival. Rhaegar and Lyanna rode through first, flanked by the three swords in white, as the rest of their procession steadily came through. 

Propriety and customs be damned, Lyanna vaulted from her horse at the first sign of the long, thin faces of her brother and father. Her boots hit the ground with a fleshy impact, rattling her legs with vibrations, but she ignored it, turning her face from the strangers who watched her with excitement. 

Lyanna ran from Smoke and her husband and the Kingsguards, past several people in the line with bright red hair, and ran straight into her father's waiting arms. He held her close and tight, her face pressed into the warm material of his doublet, smelling of smoke and horse and _home_. 

The relief she felt in her chest was so palpable, she thought that she would break apart into a million little parts, seeping into the ground like a broken doll. It was several long moments before she stepped back from her father's embrace, catching the amused smiles of the Winterfell men around them, before going into Ned's arms. 

He curled around her like a sweet wolf, and she pressed her nose into his hair. "Oh, Ned," she sighed, out of melancholy and pride. For one wild moment, she meant to look for Brandon and Benjen, too, but she stopped herself before she made the fool. 

Benjen was safe and singular and _Stark_ behind Winterfell's walls, and Brandon was possibly in the embrace of his Dornish lover off South. 

Only when she realized the yard was totally silent did she step away from Ned's arms and back to Rhaegar, who waited patiently. The line of awaiting people instantly went to their knees, bending their necks so that all she could see was a hundred bowed heads. 

"Rise," Rhaegar said, his voice strong. A hundred heads lifted, and he took her to the front of the line where an older man who could only be Lord Hoster Tully waited beside his three children. 

"My prince," Lord Hoster greeted Rhaegar, inclining his head once more. "I am honored you have come to see my lady daughter married."

"It is my pleasure," Rhaegar replied. "It is my good-brother she is being matched to." _The second good-brother_ , was the unspoken rest. 

"May I present my son, Edmure, my daughter, Lysa, and of course, Catelyn." Edmure Tully was a short boy, slightly younger than Lyanna herself, with wide blue eyes that shined on Rhaegar and his princess and Kingsguards with reverent worship. 

Lysa Tully was much as Lyanna remembered from the tourney, small and with dark auburn hair, and stars in her eyes for the Dragon Prince. Lyanna recalled with an amused memory how Lysa had fawned over Rhaegar at the nightly feasts of Harrenhal, before Lyanna had been betrothed or married to her silver prince. Lysa looked on Rhaegar now as if she wished she could make off with him, family and Lyanna be damned. 

And Lady Catelyn, stunning in red and blue, her sunset hair spiraling brightly down her back, her pale skin a lovely contrast to eyes the color of a river. But behind those blues, Lyanna read fear, akin to the fear that _she_ had felt in the Sept of Baelor before the who's who of the realm. 

A pity overtook Lyanna, so she stepped forward and embraced Catelyn, squeezing her softly before stepping back. Catelyn curtsied to her. "My princess, it is an honor to see you once more."

Lyanna smiled gently. "And you as well, my lady. I hope that I can speak with you later, so that we may get to know one another."

Catelyn took the proposal with grace and nodded once more. 

They went down the rest of the line, greeting her father and brother once more, and then they were shuffled into the castle, separating to their individual chambers. Her ladies were put in rooms that surrounded her own, which were on a floor higher than Rhaegar's own. 

That night, they feasted in Riverrun's Great Hall, dining on fish and salads and foods cooked in a way that Lyanna had not yet before tasted. They sat on the dais, Lyanna mingled between her family and Rhaegar, though she spent all her time laughing with her father. Ned seemed far too nervous to contribute any conversation at all, sitting stiff next to Catelyn. 

When they retired to bed, Lyanna almost followed her father to his rooms, wishing to sneak into his bed like she did when she was younger, but she refrained. She briefly considered pestering Ned, playing the little sister, but he seemed so tired, so dead on his feet, that she couldn't bear to disturb him either. 

And then her eyes fell on Rhaegar, his silver hair gleaming like beaten metal against the black of his apparel. He caught her stare before she could look away, and lifted one corner of his mouth up in a smile-smirk. 

Her heart fluttered at the sight and she dropped her gaze, too weak for the intensity of those purple eyes on her skin. 

"Tired?" Jaime's voice was at her ear. 

She glanced up. _He_ looked tired, black circles beneath those green eyes, his pupils as small as pinpoints. As her personal guard, Jaime's rooms were directly beside her own, in case she had need of him in the middle of the night, but he looked half dead. 

"I'd sooner have sword lessons," she muttered, "but I guess a good night's sleep is just as well."

Jaime chuckled, going to say something else, when Rhaegar appeared, tall and imposing and lovely. "Lyanna," he said, sending a thrill through her at the sound of her name on his silver tongue, "may I escort you to bed?"

Even the innocent phrasing of his words coupled with his voice made a hot chill shudder through her. She nodded, accepting his hand, allowing herself to be led like a child to her chambers. 

When they got to her door, however, Rhaegar placed a hand on the handle of her door. "May I come in?"

She went hot and cold all over. There was hardly a more suitable place to "try" with him again, in a private room within a castle, with hopefully no ears to hear. But where she'd only previously felt nervous excitement, now she only felt _sick_. 

"Yes," she said, going through the door. Her chambers within Riverrun were lovely and spacious, with a wide balcony that had a gorgeous view of the river below. 

She made sure to close the door behind them, but before she could step away, Rhaegar trapped her there, with her back against the wood and one of his hands flat beside her head. Lyanna felt faint so suddenly, as if her very life source had drained. 

"Are you well?" He asked her seriously, stroking her cheek soothingly. 

She nodded, though it was a lie. She was nauseated and tired and her breasts ached with a tenderness that told her her moon blood would be coming soon; Lyanna had never been good with recording the dates nor keeping track in her mind, so listening to her body's symptoms was the only way to be warned of its impending arrival. 

Rhaegar did not look as though he believed her but he accepted it nonetheless. He slid his hand from her cheek and down her neck so that he placed the flat of his palm against the heartbeat in her throat. 

"How," he murmured, "did I end up with such a stunning wife?"

Despite her ill feelings, she snorted. "Because you were dumb enough to name me your queen of love and beauty."

"A decision I stand by," he smiled. 

She allowed herself to smile back. "If your father wasn't out for blood at the tourney, I would have returned at the champions' call, and jousted my way through every opponent until I beat _you_."

A smirk had transformed his lovely, innocent face into a dangerous dragon. And she loved it. "Is that so? Care to prove it?"

"What a poor knight you are," she mocked, "challenging a helpless princess to a duel for the ego."

"I'm an excellent knight," he assured her quietly, "and you, are not helpless."

She shrugged casually, momentarily distracted from her nausea. 

"I specifically remember _someone_ wielding steel against their prince when confronted."

"And I'd do it again," she assured him. 

His smile softened and he did that thing where he dragged his eyes down her skin, peeling her away so that she was naught but the soil of a bared field. "So would I."

The sudden knock at her door sent vibrations through her back. "Rhaegar," Ser Arthur's voice could be heard through the door, "Lord Hoster is ready for you."

Lyanna frowned, glancing up. But Rhaegar groaned, and bent forward to rest his forehead against the door, so that their bodies were now molded together. "I'll be right out," Rhaegar called, his voice muffled by wood. 

Rhaegar waited until he heard the sound of Arthur's retreating steps, then he pulled back slightly. "I must go." He cupped her beneath her chin and turned her head so that he could press a warm kiss to the hollow of her cheekbone. "Sleep well, beautiful."

She stepped aside and allowed her husband to leave, clicking the door shut behind him, then immediately ran to empty her stomach into an empty pot near her bed.


	41. Heat

Lyanna sighed happily, allowing the crisp breeze to smooth over her cheeks. She made her way to Riverrun's godswood alone, having released her ladies to mingle with the others. 

The sound of the rushing river was soothing music to her ears, and the earthy, cool scents of the water settled her churning stomach. She would have to visit a maester for a sickness potion if her nausea persisted for any longer. She could only imagine the humiliation of vomiting as Ned and Catelyn promised their vows to one another. 

When Lyanna finally came to the godswood though, she stopped. Lady Catelyn, in a beautiful gown of dark blue silk, sat with her back against a slim, sad weirwood, her own lovely face crumpled in dismay. 

Lyanna wondered if she should turn and flee, to pretend as if she never saw the Tully girl. It might save them both the awkwardness. But then again, Lyanna did propose they get to know one another. What kind of good sister would she be if she ignored the lady's sadness?

"Lady Catelyn," she called out, stepping into the bright, airy garden. 

Catelyn's head jerked up in surprise and she hastily wiped away her tears before climbing to her feet and curtsying. "Your Highness, I did not hear you approach."

Lyanna tried to smile. "Quick, quiet feet," she explained. "And please, call me Lyanna."

Catelyn dipped her head. "Of course, Lyanna."

Lyanna motioned to the heart tree. "Do you mind if I sit with you?" The weirwood watched them both sadly. 

Catelyn shook her head. "No, of course not. I was just..." She trailed off in uncertainty. 

Lyanna sat at the base of the heart tree, leaning her head against its trunk; she felt better already, as if the old gods seeped their life source into her bones. "My lady," she began. 

"You can call me Catelyn," Catelyn said immediately, "or Cat, if you prefer. My family does."

"Cat," Lyanna smiled, "are you alright?"

Catelyn looked startled to be asked so boldly, so upfront. She settled across from Lyanna, her own back resting against an old, thick elm. "Of course, why wouldn't I be? My wedding is only three days away."

Lyanna studied the Tully girl closely, from her red-rimmed eyes to her flushed neck to the slight sheen the tears had left on her cheeks. "You were crying," she pointed out, "when I came upon you."

Catelyn seemed embarrassed. "Oh, that. I was just thinking."

Lyanna frowned, dropping her eyes. She wondered where Brandon was right this moment, if he was looking out from the cliffs of Starfall, or riding horses across the Dornish hills. 

"I know Brandon shamed you," Lyanna blurted out. 

Catelyn's blue eyes widened in shock. "No," she went to say. 

Lyanna held a hand up. "Brandon shamed you," she affirmed in a voice that brooked no argument. "And I know he isn't here to say it, but I am sorry on his behalf."

Catelyn dropped her eyes. "That is not necessary, Your Highness."

"Call me Lyanna," she corrected again. "And it is necessary. But," she said, "I feel like I must tell you something, to ease your sadness and your embarrassment."

"That is kind...Lyanna, but you need not. I am not shamed." 

"You are," Lyanna insisted, "and that is alright." She sighed, her mind going back months and months to Harrenhal. "My father was going to betroth me to Lord Robert of the House Baratheon, you know."

Catelyn seemed aware. "A fine man," she allowed diplomatically. 

"A _handsome_ man," Lyanna countered, "but not fine. I did not want to marry him."

Catelyn cocked her head in confusion. "Why not?"

"Because," Lyanna explained, "I saw his ways clear as day. He already got a bastard on some girl in the Vale, and there were rumors of more. He flirted with the serving wenches and eyed the ladies. I knew he'd be no different within the confines of our union."

Catelyn's mouth formed a circle. "I see."

"I got lucky," Lyanna realized aloud. "Rhaegar would never treat me with such dishonor."

Catelyn smiled small. "The prince is noble and honorable."

"He is," Lyanna agreed. And then she said, "And so is Ned."

Catelyn's eyes flashed up quick as a snake, her cheeks coloring at having been caught in her thoughts. She seemed to war within herself, until finally she admitted, "He - Eddard - does not speak much. Brandon...he used to speak to me, and make me laugh."

Despite the melancholy of the situation, Lyanna smiled, remembering her wild wolf and his mischief and smiles. "Brandon is something." She sighed, straightening her spine. "And he can make anyone smile, but Ned will be better for you."

Catelyn's vulnerability showed clearly in her face. "You truly think so?"

Lyanna nodded without hesitance. "He will. You may have known Brandon, _wanted_ Brandon even, but you would not have been happy with Brandon."

Catelyn waited patiently, listening to her. 

Lyanna continued. "If you had married Brandon, you would have grown to resent him, despise him even. You'd be forced to walk Winterfell, trying to ignore the children running around that had his face and another woman's blood."

Catelyn dropped her eyes, frowning as she thought of the picture Lyanna painted. 

Lyanna continued, "Ned is patient and kind and loyal. You will never want for anything nor suffer. He might even grow to love you, and you him."

At that, some ghost of a smile crossed Catelyn's mouth. "He does seem kind," she allowed, "if stern."

"What seems stern," Lyanna explained, "is only shyness. He can be warm as a summer's day if you have his heart."

Catelyn's smile grew bigger with slight hesitance. "You think I can win his heart?"

"You're quite pretty. And Ned never thought his match would be an excellent one. Yet here you sit. And you're sweet. Ned has always needed a sweet lady for his gentle soul."

A different sort of flush graced Catelyn's cheeks. Lyanna grinned, feeling satisfied with her work. She stood, dusting the leaves off her gown. "I think I shall go to the yard to watch the men fight, but I hope to see you later, Cat."

Lyanna began to walk away, but Cat's voice stopped her. "Thank you, Lyanna. Ned is lucky to have you as a sister."

Lyanna turned her head to smile back. "I'll be yours soon, too."

* * *

Knights and squires and lords of all different bearings littered the training yard like a mob of ants, chattering and circling and eyeing one another. There was a vast myriad of sigils in attendance: the ravens and weirwood of House Blackwood, the twin towers of Frey, the bats of Whent, the red stallion of House Bracken, a silver eagle for the Mallisters, the leaping trout of Riverrun, guardsmen in Targaryen colors, the snarling wolf of his wife's House, and finally, the black stag of House Baratheon. 

Robert Baratheon had ridden in one day after Rhaegar's party had arrived; the Stormlord had come to see his best friend married, and, to Rhaegar's suspicion, see a glimpse of Lyanna. 

Rhaegar had successfully managed to avoid Robert for the most part, but as the wedding preparations were still being made, there was scarce to do in the castle but sit and talk, or meet in the yard. 

So Rhaegar had woken to a beautiful crisp spring day, broke his fast, donned his golden ringmail, and walked to Riverrun's training yard with Arthur, Oswell, and Jaime, who all had stripped their white Kingsguard armor and wore cream-enameled chainmail and white breeches and boots instead. 

The yard was packed, but thankfully large enough to accommodate all the visitors. With so much commotion, Rhaegar and his White Swords were able to slip in largely unnoticed. 

Rhaegar's hand itched for Fire, his Valyrian steel wedding sword, whose blade ran deep with the colors of flame - but Fire was in King's Landing, and its steel could flay stag and stallion and trout alike with just a flick of the wrist. Instead, he chose a blunted tourney sword, as everyone else had, twisting it in his palm. 

Because of their stealth entrance, and position beneath the covered part of the yard where the weapons were, Rhaegar could hear the words of the four Frey and Bracken knights clear as a whistle. 

"Oh, are you kidding me? The princess is about as frigid as an Other."

"But more comely by far," another mocked. 

"Yeah, whatever," one droned, "one night with me and she won't be so cold. I could show her a thing or two that Dragon Prince don't know."

"You know nothing," his friend laughed, "besides how to play with yourself."

"Oh shut up, Patreck. That whore from Oldtown told me I was the best she ever had."

"She was _paid_ to tell you that, jackass."

"Yeah, well no matter if it was my coin or my cock, she said it all the same. Besides," he said, "that prince is too pretty by half. Pretty men can't fight or fuck; I wouldn't trust him in bed _or_ on the battlefield."

Rhaegar seethed silently. He could have had their tongues ripped out for their insolence on the spot, let their blood stain the floors red. Arthur wouldn't hesitate to grace their filthy mouths with Dawn's blade, but Rhaegar's hands itched something fierce, something _hot_ for Fire. 

The way that they talked about Lyanna, _his_ princess, angered him more than anything they could have said against him. The mental image of Lyanna with anyone else made poison bubble up in his blood. 

_Let them harbor their doubts, let them joke about my prowess_ , he thought with venom. He had mail and a sword and a yard, and _they_ had woken the dragon.

* * *

Lyanna had arrived to the training yard just as Ser Jaime had bested a knight of House Mallister; the two shook hands and separated, as a knight in service of House Frey took to the center. 

Lyanna grimaced from where she stood atop the wraparound balcony that overlooked the training yard; ever since Harrenhal and Howland Reed's beating, Lyanna did not trust anyone associated with House Frey, no matter their blood or station. 

The Frey knight grinned arrogantly, asking for a challenger. It was a moment before someone tall stepped in, his long silver hair playing metallic off his golden mail hauberk. Rhaegar looked like some avenging hero, with the fire in his eyes. 

Though his eyes burned, his body was casual as he stepped forward. The Frey knight circled so that his back was to her, and she could see every little thing Rhaegar did - from the easy way that he moved his sword lazily from hand to hand, to the manner in which he stretched and flexed his fingers around the hilt. 

Heat crept through her. And then the fight began. Rhaegar and the other knight were at an almost even height, but the advantage was on Rhaegar. 

Her dragon was quick and lethal, and he cut at the Frey knight impossibly fast, their steel ringing together like some lovely song. For every step the Frey knight took back, Rhaegar was on him, almost chest to chest. They parried their blows violently, as if they fought on the field of battle rather than the yard of an ally. 

Just watching Rhaegar in action, the way his arms and legs moved so gracefully, yet so inhuman, made her want to jump out of her skin. Forget beautiful, forget wealthy, forget high of birth - her husband was a warrior, and it made her want to shed her skin and bones. 

The duel was over in less than two minutes, and only because Rhaegar had allowed it to go on for that long. He begrudgingly took the other man's hand and shook it - hard, it seemed, because the man in Frey livery winced in pain before sulking to a corner with his tail between his legs. 

Lyanna felt her heartbeats coming quick, and it was all she could do not to just shout in frustration. Her skin crawled and she felt _out of it_ , heat blazing through her. But unlike the past month, when all she'd been was melting, melting, melting, now she welcomed the heat, like a dragon warming to its fire. 

And as if he could feel the weight of her eyes on him, Rhaegar looked up, freezing for an instant before lifting one side of his mouth up. Lyanna's lips parted, her breath shallow; even his smile made her sweat. 

She turned quickly without acknowledging him and strode into the castle, making for her chambers. Her veins were razed, her skin crawling with an uninhibited anticipation that she had no idea how to quell. 

She had made it all the way to her door when she remembered she'd allowed her ladies use of the room for the day. Their chatter could be heard through the wooden door, happy and insistent. 

She grimaced. Lyanna could not deal with "ladies talk" at that moment, so she went for Rhaegar's room instead. He was down in the yard, and probably would be for quite some time, so there was no chance of him needing it. 

When she got there, servants were clearing away old plates of food from the table. "Would you mind preparing a bath please?" She asked them, keeping the edge out of her voice that she knew would be there otherwise. 

One servant nodded, going to leave, but she said, "The hottest water you can find." She wanted to bathe in fire. The servant nodded again, and brought the others with him as he left. 

Lyanna went to Rhaegar's balcony, one that was much like her own, and looked to the waters shimmering far as the eye could see. The wind blew soft and cool at her skin, but it was heat she wanted. _Heat_. 

The servants brought up a large wooden tub that was shaped like an oversized soup bowl, big and round and deep. Over the inside and edges of the tub, they had laid hot towels that seeped their heat in thin wisps of steam. 

She continued to look out over the river for a long time as they filled the tub with hot water, enjoying the peace and tranquility of Riverrun. But just as the last dregs of water were being poured into the bath, Rhaegar appeared. 

In his ringmail, he looked dangerous and beautiful and deadly. His pale face was flushed and his silver hair limp with sweat, beads of it dotting his hairline like crystals. Lyanna felt her mouth go dry as a desert. 

"What's this?" He asked as the servants picked up their pails and skittered away silently. 

She was too proud to say that watching him in the yard, with a sword in his hand, made her want to jump out of her skin, to melt the frustration right away with a scalding bath...so she offered, "I thought you might like a bath after a day in the yard."

She hadn't realized how long it had taken the servants to prepare the bath, but the early colorings of twilight painted the sky lilac and the river indigo. The tub had been situated at the mouth of the balcony, so that you could look out over the water as you soaked. 

"Thank you," Rhaegar said with a small smile. "I'm sure I could use it. All that swordplay has me sweating through my mail."

She brushed her eyes down his body. "I can see that." There was a loaded moment of utter silence, and it was more than she could take. "Well, I'll leave you to it."

"Wait," he said after her, "was there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

She turned, frowning. "No, why?"

"Oh," he said, "well you were waiting here. I thought you might need to."

"No," she said, fidgeting but making no move to leave again. 

Rhaegar studied her closely, scrutinizing her every move, her face, her hands. He swallowed heavily, teething his bottom lip with those sharp white teeth. "Would you," he murmured very slowly, "like to join me?"

Her eyes flicked to the bath, at the steam rolling off the water and the soaked towels plastered to the tub, the gentle sway of the water beneath the hand of a breeze. She shouldn't, there was no reason to. 

And yet...the thought of feeling his slick skin against hers, much like their first and only time together, made that frustrated, jump-out-of-her-skin feeling far more pronounced. 

"Okay," she heard herself say. 

If Rhaegar was surprised, he didn't show it. Lyanna went to shut the door and barred it carefully, making sure no one could come into his room to disturb them. Then she turned back around, frozen on spot at the sight of him pulling the heavy mail off his body, throwing it to the ground in a thick metallic heap. 

She shuddered, bending to pick at the laces of her boots, but still watching as he peeled his sweat-soaked tunic off his chest. The ridges of his torso played as he flexed, the pale skin shifting over hard bones and muscle. She shucked her boots off. 

Next came his belt and breeches, both going to a pile on the floor. Lyanna pulled apart the laces at the front of her gown, momentarily distracted as she shouldered off the dress, pulling it down her hips and legs. 

Rhaegar stepped into the hot water, naked as his name day. Lyanna stood still as a statue, left only in a thin shift, much like the one she'd worn when she'd taken him inside her weeks ago. 

Surely Rhaegar wasn't expecting her to get completely nude; he wasn't that kind of man. But she found she wanted to. She wanted nothing obstructing her skin from the water...or his hands. 

Clearing away her anxiety, she peeled off the shift and threw it to the ground, pulling her hair forward to cover her breasts. Then, naked and without a stitch of clothing for modesty, she padded toward the tub, stepping inside. 

Rhaegar had his eyes closed, but he opened them when she settled in across from him. The tub was so large and round that he could relax with his arms around the edge and his legs splayed, while she sat before him. 

She gathered her knees up and banded both her arms around them, reveling in the pure heat of the water. "You were good," she said quietly, "in the yard."

A shadow passed over his face quickly. "Thank you. I didn't expect to see you there."

She shrugged. "I went to the godswood briefly, but I wanted to see some fighting."

He smirked, laying his head back. "You would."

She hid her smile by looking down, but grimaced when she pushed her chest into her knees. Her breasts were so tender, and the movement caused a spasm of pain. 

"What's wrong?" He asked immediately, sitting up. 

"Nothing," she was quick to say. 

"Yes there is," he insisted firmly. "Tell me."

She squeezed her eyes closed. There was no way she was telling him her breasts were tender; that was far too intimate to share. Instead, she lied. "My back has been hurting all day. It's sore, that's all."

"Oh," he said, "come here then."

She furrowed her brows, glancing up. "What?"

"I'll rub your back," he explained. "Make you feel better." She shook her head but Rhaegar persisted. " _Yes_ , now come here before I have to force you."

 _What if I want you to?_ She thought to herself boldly. Instead she inched forward, turning so that her back was to him. He gripped her hips softly and pulled her back into the apex of his thighs. Then he sat forward so that is chest dropped water onto her back. 

His fingers started out at the base of her spine, inching upward with careful pressure. She moaned immediately, involuntarily. "Feel good?" He asked, a smile in his tone. She nodded back, too relaxed to care. 

The tub sat in the opening of the balcony, so that she could see leagues of river before her, shimmering purple in the descension of evening. Cool air brushed her skin, while her body boiled in hot water. 

She sank deeper into Rhaegar's chest, so that he had to lean back against the tub; they were so close that he had a difficult time finding her spine, but she didn't care. 

She snaked her hands back and pulled his away from her spine, entwining all ten of his fingers with her own; she held their hands up to see and stared in fascination at the way his long fingers dwarfed her own. 

Then, without meaning to, her mind went back to their only time coupling, in that marbled bath in Rhaegar's rooms in Maegor's; she recalled the way those long fingers had played her like a harp, bringing her to a cliff's edge, awaiting something wonderful, something scary. 

She had stopped him before she could find out what that _something_ was. 

She didn't want to stop now. She laid both his palms flat against her stomach, pressing them to the skin, and she could swear she felt heat bubbling in her belly, like a dragon's purr. 

Rhaegar heaved a great sigh, clutching his fingers into her stomach gently. She could feel his heartbeat in her back, could feel his arousal at the base of her spine. She took a deep breath of his scent and let her head fall back into the crook of his neck and shoulder. 

Rhaegar shifted, pulling her impossibly closer to him before pressing a kiss to her shoulder. She played her fingers through his absently, her eyes closed. She wanted him to touch her like he had all those weeks before, wanted him to bring her to that edge again, to bring her _over_ it. 

She bent her knee and braced a foot against the edge of the tub, melting into his hold. Her heart was beating furiously, but she gathered enough courage to take his right hand in hers again, pushing it down her hip and to the inside of her thigh. 

She shifted her hips up just slightly, causing his hand to fall deeper between her legs. He seemed to understand. "Are you sure?" He whispered into her ear. 

She nodded, sinking lower into the water. Rhaegar gripped the inside of one of her thighs momentarily, breathing heavily into her ear, before slipping his hand between her legs. Sparks of pleasure slithered through her instantly at the mere brush of his fingers against her sex, rendering her useless but to lay against his chest and _feel_. 

He slipped his finger up and down, teasing her until she felt a flush spread over her entire body - a heat that had absolutely nothing to do with the bath. Her breath came ragged, and she knew he could hear the way he was affecting her, the way he was _playing_ her, but she didn't care. 

All she cared about was his fingers touching her, pressing circles into that little nub at the top of her sex like he had the first time, causing her so much pleasure she felt ready to jump out of her own body, straining against the very skin that contained her. 

Lyanna lifted her head and turned to kiss her dragon - his lips were hot and swollen and tasted sweet. She slipped her tongue into his mouth the same moment he slipped his fingers _into her_. 

She shuddered violently, kissing him harder. He continued to move his fingers inside and out, slowly, insistently, discovering. 

She was suddenly back on that precipice, that cliffside he'd taken her to that first time, the feeling of approaching something _big_. Her chest was shaking, like when she had to sneeze, a stuttering crescendo of breath. 

"I," she said uselessly against his mouth. Her thoughts were a tangle that she could not decipher, his fingers turning her brain to jelly. 

But he knew all the same. "It's okay," he murmured, "let it happen. It feels good, I promise."

She closed her eyes, obeying him. Rhaegar's fingers worked her with more pressure, his thumb stroking over that nub, again and again and again and...

The fire in her gut exploded suddenly and fiercely, with no warning at all. She gasped into Rhaegar's mouth, paralyzed, as a thousand different tendrils of pure, unadulterated ecstasy shot through her. He swallowed every moan she made, endured the way her fingers roughly dug into his forearms as she rode out the most intense pleasure she'd ever felt in her entire life. 

It seemed to last forever and not at all, both at once. Time seemed to spend differently with Rhaegar touching her, so that she didn't know how long it lasted, how long he made her see stars beneath her eyes. 

Though eventually when she opened them, her pleasure abated and night having fallen over the black Riverlands, she realized no star could compare. 


	42. The Union of the Wolf and Trout

Eddard and Catelyn's wedding day bloomed crisp and bright, the gods old and new having blessed their union with clear skies and tranquil waters. Overhead, birds pierced the miles and miles of pure blue day, singing their high, chirping songs as they wound about the sky on outstretched wings.

It was an altogether brighter event than had been Rhaegar and Lyanna's own wedding day, though far less lavish than his royal ceremony. King's Landing had drowned beneath the weight of a grey, weeping sky the day he had placed his dragoncloak over Lyanna's tense shoulders in the Sept of Baelor, as if the clouds themselves cursed their union. Contrary, the Riverlands _thrived_ at the prospect of a wolf catching a trout, pure joy emanating from every walk of life.

Riverrun's sept, a large sandstone building of seven sides, was situated in the lush gardens beneath the castle's shadow; there, the flowers grew wild and bright, reds and yellows and purples abloom, and the grass was as thick and soft as velvet, both filling the air with their earthy fragrances. Those deemed less important of the guests stood outside the sept's entrance, admidst the gardens, awaiting the bride and groom's exit to the feast.

The attendance inside the sept counted Riverrun's most powerful of bannermen, Blackwoods and Brackens and Darrys and Mallisters and Whents, whom took up a majority of the sept with their bodies. At the front, in the shadows of Ned and Lady Catelyn and the painted images of the Mother and Father, were the bride and groom's families: Lord Hoster, Lysa, Edmure, and Ser Brynden the Blackfish at the front left, and across the aisle, Lord Rickard, Lyanna, and Rhaegar.

And behind Lyanna, Lord Robert Baratheon stood tall with Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, who had arrived deep into the night with a dozen knights of the Vale.

Rhaegar could practically feel the weight of Robert's stare on Lyanna _for her_ ; and yet, he could not fault the Stormlord, as much as Rhaegar disliked his attention. Lyanna was as beautiful as beauty could be on this day.

For her brother's wedding, Lyanna wore the dress Rhaegar had gifted her only a few weeks ago, just before they had left for Riverrun. The gown was a lovely confection of scarlet velvet, with long dagged sleeves whose insides were lined in black satin, and a flowing skirt that pooled to the floor like a puddle of blood. The bodice was cut low in the front in a deep vee, but the black lace corset she wore beneath granted her modesty, though the swell of her cleavage still showed. 

Atop her head was her own royal crown that Rhaegar had designed and given her on their wedding day within the Great Sept of Baelor: a flower crown wrought of black iron for the vines, glistening sapphires for the likeness of winter roses, and diamonds fashioned as drops of morning dew. The crown was there to assert and remind the people of her position as Rhaegar's princess and future queen.

And in that same vein, Rhaegar donned his own crown - a slim circlet of spun gold embedded with chunks of shimmering crystals that banded around his brow. For the wedding he'd worn black leather breeches tucked into tall boots, with a black tunic and a doublet of pale samite that was worked through with silver thread.

The ceremony was quick and somber, though Lady Catelyn was resplendent in a gown of ivory, her sunset hair flowing down her back in ringlets. Lyanna's brother, Ned, was as grim as ever, in the colors of his House, and did not twitch to even smile as he placed his direwolf cloak to replace the trout over the Tully girl's back. Rhaegar could make out tears in Lady Catelyn Stark's eyes as she turned to appreciate the claps of their attendees, tears that shimmered as brightly as the crystals in Rhaegar's crown. 

Arm in arm, Ned and his bride strode down the aisle and outside, applause heralding their exit from the sept. As per the traditions of deference, Lord Rickard, Lyanna, and Rhaegar were permitted to leave first, the Tully family following behind. Though, when they made it outside, Lyanna had to steal away to the sept's side, leaning against the sandstone with a weary expression.

Rhaegar frowned, following her. "Lyanna, what's wrong?" He murmured, bending to catch her eye.

She looked up, and the movement made the sun catch on her crown, the sapphire winter roses glittering insanely bright. "I do not feel well."

He dragged the back of his knuckles across her cheek; she positively _burned_ , like the heat of a brazier, though her skin was glowing as pale as ever, no hint of red or pink in her complexion. "Perhaps you should lay down?" He suggested.

She shook her head. "No, this is my brother's wedding. I have to be at the feast. I'll just," she paused, taking a breath, "see the maester quickly."

"I'll go with you," Rhaegar offered immediately.

"No," she said, "one of us must be there at the start. It wouldn't do to have both the prince and princess missing."

In spite of his concern, he smiled, the spill of her dutiful royal words humoring him. Then she groaned again, causing his frown to deepen. He had hoped the wedding would make her happy, put her in a good mood, so that he could propose laying together once more. 

They had only done it the once, in the warmth of his bath that first time in Maegor's Holdfast; in the tub in his rooms within Riverrun, she had guided his hand between her legs, but they had gone no farther. He had gathered enough courage to suggest they try once more for a babe, assuming that seeing her brother wed would lift her spirits.

But with Lyanna ill, Rhaegar did not feel it was such a good idea anymore to crawl between her legs, for the good of the realm or not.

"I'll be quick," Lyanna promised, her eyes open and bright. Though unwell, her skin shone like milkglass. "And then I'll join you at the feast."

"Okay," he conceded.

* * *

The feast had been going for half an hour, the wine and food and songs flowing. At the dais, Catelyn and Ned were seated in the middle, their families surrounding them. Rickard was to Ned's right, then came Lyanna's empty seat, then Rhaegar. Lyanna had been with the maester for thirty minutes, and with each second that went by, Rhaegar felt more unease building in his chest. 

Not for the first time, he wondered if he should seek her out. Lord Hoster would surely point out the maester's chambers, but Rhaegar had agreed to let her go alone. And so, he ate the first two courses of the meal, speaking with his Kingsguards and Lord Rickard, who respectfully ignored his daughter's absence.

It was when the second course was being cleared away, and the third course distributed, that Rhaegar saw Lyanna appear in the entrance of the Great Hall. She filled the doorway like a vision of beauty, her crimson dress burning like a ruby, her crown glistening black and blue. Lord Robert Baratheon had taken notice of her, too, as well as many of the younger knights and lords and squires seated at the trestle tables below.

Ser Jaime appeared at Lyanna's side, offering her his arm, but for once, Rhaegar did not feel that gnawing suspicion he had whenever they were together, ever since Ser Lewyn had planted that black seed in his mind. Lyanna did not even seem to notice Jaime there, her eyes like hooks in Rhaegar's skin, heavy and _piercing_.

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, on guard at the look she leveled him with. It was not a bad look, per se, but loaded, meaningful somehow. A herald at the door called out her arrival as the room stood in respect. "Lyanna of the Houses Stark and Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms!"

Lyanna did not seem to see or hear anything but Rhaegar as she strode down the aisle toward him, alone as she abandoned the page in Tully livery waiting to escort her. No one but Rhaegar and a choice few others appeared to notice the fire burning in her eyes, and by the time she made her way up to her empty seat, Rhaegar's skin was aflame.

She sat primly in her seat, the room returning to its cacophonous rumble as the guests sat, and turned to him. "What's the matter?" He heard himself ask, leaning closer.

Her lips parted as she drank in his breath, and she met his eyes. "I'm pregnant."

The world seemed to go dead and dark for Rhaegar, and the only light was Lyanna there before him, pale and glowing in velvet and sapphires, her expression one of astonishment and bewilderment. "You're what?" He asked dumbly. No, she couldn't be, they'd only done it _the one time_.

Rhaegar had given her weeks of time to really come to terms with her duty, never pressuring or raising the subject of coupling again. He hadn't expected his one time inside her, spilling his seed in her, to result in a babe. He'd only thought it was one in a long line of couplings they'd have to complete to get their heir; his own mother always had a difficult time getting with child, even though that held no bearing on Lyanna's womb. He'd just assumed...

Lyanna's eyes widened as if she couldn't believe it either. "Pregnant," she repeated. "I spoke with the maester. I've been feeling ill for a couple of weeks now, and though I'm not usually good at remembering, I do recall my last moon blood coming before I took you to Flea Bottom."

Rhaegar laughed breathlessly. "You're pregnant." His prince, his promised prince, he could have cried at the sheer joy unfurling in his heart. Instead, he took hold of her face and surprised her by pressing his lips to hers, a soft and gentle kiss to express just how much this news meant to him.

It was the heralding of a new era. This development marked the beginning of the end of his father's mad reign, marked the timid start of the Eternal Summer his three wolf-dragons would eventually bring about. Lyanna pregnant meant his mother's safety, the prosperity of the realm and the savior of its ultimate doom.

When they pulled apart, Lyanna seemed properly dazed, though some lingerings of wonderous incredulity were still etched in her face. Rhaegar had half a mind to stand up and announce their good news to the hall, to have the people bask and share in their happiness of the realm's new royal babe. But he didn't.

It would not do to have his father learn of Lyanna's pregnancy last, no matter if Rhaegar wished the king would never lay eyes on her again - not since Aerys equated her to Joanna Lannister, his lion love. It was by Westerosi tradition that the king and queen would announce a royal pregnancy, and to do otherwise was severe disrespect.

 _It is disrespect I hesitate over_ , Rhaegar thought with dark irony, _when I plan to take his throne_.

"And now?" Lyanna asked, almost reading his mind. No doubt she was recalling the sounds of his mother's rape by his mad father's hands, and the way she had run to Rhaegar first, seeking his help.

He carded his fingers through her hair, avoiding the iron spikes of her crown. "Tell no one but your father and brother, and swear them to secrecy. The Kingsguards, too, if you like." He thought of Ser Jaime, golden and young, pressing his hand to Lyanna's belly; the arrogant lion was not so arrogant with the wolf princess around, much to Rhaegar's bewilderment. "With caution," he advised. "The realm must wait to learn _after_ the king is told."

At the mention of Aerys, Lyanna's eyes grew dark. She leaned close enough to brush her cheek against his, and then she put her lips at his ear. "And when will you dethrone him?"

Rhaegar gripped her hand. "Soon, Princess. Soon."

* * *

The feast was in full swing by nightfall, the seven courses of dinner having been devoured by the several hundred guests in attendance. Though the food was gone, the drink still flowed freely, sweetwine and Dornish red and Arbor gold and spiced ale. Lyanna sipped at the juice of an apple, steering clear of alcohol altogether; Old Nan had always said that if a woman drank wine or ale whilst pregnant, her babe would eventually emerge hideously malformed, with the scales of a lizard and the leather wings of a bat.

Lyanna wanted no such thing.

Into the night, the men grew lively and bold, twirling maidens and ladies across the floor with laughter and japes. Ned sat stiff as a log at his place on the dais, Catelyn, though lovely beside him, a dim shadow of her typical brightness. Lyanna frowned and approached Ned, placing her hand on his shoulder.

"Dance with me?"

At the sight of his sister, Ned smiled, standing immediately to take her hand and lead her to the floor. She ignored the startling blue eyes of Robert Baratheon, tucking into Ned's hold as they began to dance amongst the guests.

"You are making your new wife unhappy," Lyanna accused lightly, sending her brother a look of pitiful understanding.

Ned sighed. "I do not seem to know how to do otherwise. I am not Brandon."

"True," Lyanna conceded. "You are you, you are _Ned_."

He shook his head in fond exasperation. "That doesn't seem to curry me much favor with my bride."

"You aren't trying," Lyanna insisted. "I spoke with her, you know, just a few days ago."

"Catelyn?" Ned seemed surprised.

Lyanna nodded. "Yes, she seemed nervous and scared about the wedding. You may be sweet as a lamb with those you are close to, but to strangers you are grim and solemn. And that is all well and fine, but Catelyn is your _wife_ now. You mustn't treat her like a stranger, unless you wish your marriage to be an unhappy one."

"I don't," Ned frowned, pausing. "But I wasn't meant for any of this. It was all supposed to be Brandon's - Lady Catelyn, Winterfell, title of Warden of the North."

"Brandon is gone," Lyanna reminded him, "and it is up to you to be all those things now. _Starting_ as husband to Catelyn."

Ned nodded seriously, dropping his head like a boy reproached by his mother.

"After this song is done, you should ask her to dance," Lyanna told him. "She'll like that. Make her smile, be kind, give her what she wants. She's no doubt as scared as can be with the bedding approaching, and you wooing her will only make things easier."

Ned glanced up, his mouth forming a half-smirk. "When did you get so wise, sweet sister? Are the maesters teaching you lessons down in the capital?"

Lyanna rolled her eyes, punching his shoulder lightly. "No, you're just stupid." When the song ended, she pulled her brother into a hug, squeezing him tightly.

"It is so good to see you, Lya," he mumbled into her hair, a wisp of nostalgia coloring his tone.

She smiled, squeezing her eyes closed. "I'm pregnant," she whispered back.

Ned reared back, shock plain on his face. "You are?!"

She shushed him sternly. "You mustn't tell a soul. I'll tell Father myself, once the wedding excitement has died down, but no one else can know until the king officially announces it." 

Lyanna still wasn't sure how _she_ felt about it; once Riverrun's maester had confirmed she was indeed with child, all Lyanna felt was shock. Of course she knew having sex with Rhaegar could result in a child, but it seemed more like a far off possibility, like the idea of one day being married when she was only a young girl still in Winterfell - she'd regarded a child as the possibility that came about with numerous attempts, not just _one_.

Ned nodded seriously once more and plucked her hand to kiss lovingly. 

"Go now," she told him, "woo your bride."

Lyanna partnered with half a dozen different men after that: Jory Cassel of Winterfell, Arthur and Oswell, a Mallister knight of Seagard, Lord Jon Arryn, even Ser Jaime, who twirled her expertly across the floor, murmuring mean things about the Freys that made her laugh. Jaime's presence eased the glaring absence of Brandon and Benjen the tiniest bit.

Then Rhaegar came, tall and noble and beautiful with his golden and crystal crown around his brow. Her silver dragon with the fire in his eyes. She tried very hard _not_ to think about how his fingers had stroked between her legs mere days before. 

"May I have this dance?"

She nodded, pulling away from Ser Jaime and came into Rhaegar's arms. He was so tall that in order to speak in her ear, he had to wilt over her like a flower bending to the wind. "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?"

Her heart stuttered. "You have not."

"Well you are," he said. "Beautiful. I've never seen you anything but."

She snorted softly, recalling the memory of her dazed and bloody in the godswood of Harrenhal after her winning joust, weak at the base of the heart tree as she stumbled and swayed before the prince and his two White Knights. "Even when you caught me at Harrenhal? My lip bleeding and my sword pointed at your throat..."

"Even then," he vowed, tugging her tighter against his body. "You were something wild and clean, not of my world, and I had never seen anyone so lovely."

His words left her breathless and muddled her mind so badly, it was all she could do to stay upright. Thankfully, she had no need to reply, as the shouts and jeers for the bedding rang out, demanding Ned and Catelyn to be put to bed.

Catelyn lifted her chin as the men and women came to separate her from her husband, but almost immediately her expression fell into dismay as grabby Northern and Riverland hands stripped and peeled away her dress, all the while ushering her out of the hall. Rhaegar remained with Lyanna in the hall as Catelyn was pushed half-naked to her marriage bed. Lyanna made sure to keep her eyes off her brother.

When the crowd had left, the hall was quiet, left with only a smattering of people, which included Lord Hoster and Brynden Blackfish and Lyanna's father, as well as a sleeping Edmure Tully and the Kingsguards. Rhaegar went to tell the Kingsguards they were released for the night as Rickard beckoned his daughter over.

"My sweet love," her father smiled at her, standing to press a kiss to her cheeks. 

"Father," she said back happily, the joy of the wedding keeping her at peace, despite the fear and anxiousness warring within her at the thought of returning to King's Landing pregnant.

"I'm off to bed," he told her, "these long nights are not made for old men like me."

Lyanna frowned. "You are not old."

Rickard chuckled. "Oh, my child, sooner or later the old gods will come to collect me and I will sit beneath Winterfell for all my days."

Lyanna did not want to think of her father's death. "I'm choosing to believe you'll live forever, thank you very much."

Rickard smiled again, one of the rare ones he only afforded his daughter. "Good night, my girl, I will see you in the morning."

Lyanna hugged him tightly. When they pulled apart, Rickard looked over her shoulder and reached out a hand to shake. "Your Highness," he said respectfully to Rhaegar.

Rhaegar placed one hand on the small of Lyanna's back, and shook her father's hand with the other. "My lord, I hope you sleep well. I must get my wife to bed as well."

Rickard cocked a brow at his daughter. "Tired so soon? Has the feast worn the little wolf out?"

Lyanna looked up into her father's eyes, those kind eyes that belonged to the man that had been her protector for her entire life - the man that had given her her first horse, Meraxes, who had picked her up when she fell, who had helped her walk and talk and live. "Father," she said quietly, stepping closer although Lord Hoster and Ser Brynden were far enough away to not overhear. "I am with child."

Rickard's eyes widened, flicking once to Rhaegar, then back to Lyanna. "Truly?"

She nodded, biting her lip. Her father smiled at her sadly then wrapped her up in another hug before grasping Rhaegar's hand in congratulations.

"To the future king," Rickard said with grave solemnity, staring into Rhaegar's indigo eyes. Lyanna furrowed her brows; did her father know about Rhaegar's plans?

True to his word, Rhaegar led her to her rooms after Rickard had departed, pushing her gently with a hand on her back. Her mind was filled with images of a swollen belly, of their babe, though its coloring seemed to change from silver hair with lilac eyes to brown hair with Rhaegar's eyes then to silver hair with silver eyes. 

She wasn't sure which she preferred, but all at once her thoughts darkened, shifting to another time, a different place - a black tent amidst a field of bright silk, yellowed eyes and a gummy mouth beneath a dark cowl, Maggy the Frog's fortune at Harrenhal.

' _Your maidenhead will stay intact long after your wedding night_ ,' Maggy had promised, ' _but you will birth children. Three to be exact_.' What else had the crone said? ' _Your three children will be the greatest that the world has ever seen, your firstborn the Promised One_.'

Lyanna touched her stomach as they walked. Could she carry her "promised child" in her belly? Or was Maggy the Frog just a crazy drunk who had played her for a fool? She chanced a glance up at Rhaegar and felt her blood heat up.

His crown shimmered in the moonlight shafting through the windows and his pale hair seemed to glow like molten silver. She felt fire fill her veins, and she wondered with shock and consternation if the dragon babe inside her belly was the one filling her with such strong cravings to devour its father.

No matter the reason, she felt it. And hard. Without warning, she twisted and pulled Rhaegar's face down to hers. Their lips crashed together hungrily, even despite Rhaegar's being caught off guard. The kiss started out hot...and only got hotter.

He didn't ask her questions, or wonder what she was doing, he just flattened her against the wall with his body, roaming his hands up the sides of her hips and ribs. She tasted him with hunger in her soul, pressing hard against him in the vain hope she could crawl inside his body to get as close as possible. His tongue was wine and tarts, his teeth sharp and deadly on her skin.

She raked her little fingers through his hair and tugged, eliciting from him a moan that reverberated through her lips. The vibration of his sound sent shivers down her body. His hands inched upward and with subtle grace, he dragged his thumbs beneath the curves of her heavy, tender breasts; though where touch to her chest usually sent her grimacing in pain, _his_ touch only made her ache.

But just as soon as the fire was kindled, it was extinguished. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" Lysa Tully stood guiltily at the mouth of the hall, her blue eyes wide with shock at discovering the prince and princess groping each other in a dim corridor. "Forgive me, Your Highness, I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," Lyanna blurted out, her voice strained and her body more than humming with fiery life.

Lysa nodded with a jerk of her head then bolted from sight like a dragon was on her heels. Hot embarrassment made Lyanna's cheeks burn, and she felt her boldness slipping away. She wondered if she would ever be brave enough to just _take_ what was hers by rights; sure she was already pregnant so there was no need, but no one would look down on her for laying with her husband.

Still, the thought of so casually taking Rhaegar inside her made Lyanna both strung out with desire and extremely confused.

"Maybe I should go to bed," Lyanna said with more than a little disappointment in her tone.

She glanced up as he blew out a breath. _Be braver than me_ , she thought at him, _suggest what I can't seem to_. But Rhaegar studied her, lust clear in his gaze, before saying, "Yes, maybe you should."


	43. Hushed Treason

It was a hard thing to leave Riverrun, the sky a bleak vault of slate grey, the clouds curdling with the promise of a storm. The sun, which had been their companion for the entirety of their stay, had retreated to some far corner, hiding its warmth and light.

It was a harder thing still to leave her family once again, far more difficult than it had been to separate from Brandon, Ned, and Benjen at Harrenhal; then, she had held close to the promise that they would see each other again soon, when they came for her wedding to the prince.

But now, having become acclimated once more to the warm peace of _family_ , it felt like shreds of her soul were being ripped apart as she was pulled into her father's embrace, her face muffled by the warmth and smell of his fur-trimmed cloak as he murmured his goodbye into her hair.

Ned had come next, embracing her with a tender brother's arms. "I'll miss you," she whispered near his ear, sadness sucking every ounce of happiness from her bones.

"We'll see each other soon," he promised.

Lyanna squeezed her eyes shut as Maggy the Frog's voice filled her head like the chorus of a thousand screams: ' _And you will only ever go home to Winterfell once more in your life_.'

She did not want to think on that part of the fortune, wanted to forget the entire thing if she was being honest. But it was there, insistent in her mind, pulsing like a big black bruise that throbbed any time she thought on it.

Lady Catelyn made sure to bid Lyanna goodbye as well before she rode off with the Stark party, her red hair bright against the grey-and-white direwolf banners streaming in the wind. Lyanna was achingingly jealous, wanting to steal away into one of the wagons until she felt snow upon her face again.

But what made the day worse - worse than the angry clouds gathering above, worse than having to leave her family once more - was the fact that Rhaegar _absolutely_ refused to let her mount Smoke.

Lyanna had dressed that morning for riding, leather breeches and a long black tunic that had Rhaegar's smell to it, her trusty soft-leathered boots and a thick cloak with a large hood thrown over it all.

But when she met the Targaryen party in the entrance yard, Rhaegar sighed. "No," was all he had to say for her to know.

And it marked the first time she had ever truly fought with Rhaegar since they had been married.

"This is ridiculous," she'd shouted, rage filling her with wild abandon. She'd become so angry so quickly, somewhere deep in her mind, she feared for what she might do.

"It isn't," Rhaegar said with maddening care.

She blew a long, sharp breath out of her nose, clenching her jaw so hard it cracked. "You cannot force me to ride in _that thing_." She jerked her head toward the large, gaudy wheelhouse that her ladies had already filed into, content to be pulled across the lands back to the capital.

"You can ride comfortably and speak with your ladies," he tried, his efforts to soothe her failing magnificently.

The dragon in her belly filled her with fire, and she almost went to slap Rhaegar. "I'd rather ride in the food cart," she snapped, "rotting with the cabbage."

Thankfully, Johanna and the other ladies in the wheelhouse were safely away from hearing distance, but all three of the Kingsguards were audience to her fit. And each one seemed distinctly uncomfortable, even smug Jaime Lannister.

"Lyanna," Rhaegar tried to reason with her with a soft voice, "what if you were kicked from your horse?" And then softer still, "What if you lost the babe?"

 _'...but you will birth children. Three to be exact_.'

"Then you would have to get me pregnant again," she retorted, throwing her arms up helplessly, "or you could get another wife." The madness that overtook her was a wild thing that she could not rein in. "Besides, Smoke won't hurt me."

"This isn't up for discussion," he told her firmly, irritation finally flaring in his eyes.

"Are you my father or my husband?" Her voice was sharper than a knife. How could he do this to her? Treating her like an invalid, forcing her to be cooped up in a wheelhouse when all she wanted to do was let Smoke and the wind whip away the grief she felt at having her family ripped away again...

"Your husband," Rhaegar answered, "your prince, and your future king."

Blind fury was all she felt, and her baby's dragonblood was mixing dangerously with her own wolf's blood, coagulating into this toxic poison that made her wrathful beyond belief. She wanted to wring Rhaegar's neck just as much as she wanted to kiss it.

"Very well, Your Highness," she intoned coldly, "if you have need of your _broodmare_ , I will be in that contraption." She made her way to the wheelhouse, throwing her hood up to hide her flushed face, and climbed inside to join her ladies.

* * *

For nine days straight, Lyanna and Rhaegar did not speak. At dinner, Rhaegar spoke with Arthur and Oswell, and Lyanna put up with her ladies. At night, when they slept at inns or erected their tents and pavilions, Lyanna held tightly to her upset, and kept far away from Rhaegar's bed, no matter how much he wanted the opposite.

It was when they were only a few days away from King's Landing that Rhaegar finally put a stop to things, fed up with the disconnect working its way between him and his wife. As the sky turned the color of a bruise and their encampment began working up dinner and tents, Rhaegar drew Lyanna aside, his hand around her small, stiff elbow.

"I want you to come with me," he said.

She stared stubbornly at the hollow of his throat, so much like the day he wed her, refusing to meet his eyes. "Why, do you have another present for me that you plan to take away?"

"Let's go," he told her, ignoring the barb.

"Oh," she crooned, "do you deign to let me walk around? What if I were to trip and fall and miscarry, Your Highness? What then?"

Rhaegar rolled his eyes. He may not have known much about women's troubles, but he knew that babes - _especially dragon babes_ \- filled their mothers with fiery moods beyond compare. "Come on."

He walked off before she could retort something else nasty, but when he snuck a look over his shoulder, she was following him...begrudgingly. 

Rhaegar's pavilion had been set up away from the others' at his behest. He had planned on speaking with Lyanna on their trip back to the capital, but had not anticipated her long-fed anger at being denied riding. Arthur stood sentry at his pavilion entrance, holding back the flap for them.

Rhaegar ushered Lyanna in first, then told Arthur, "Make sure no one comes close to us tonight." Arthur nodded and went to march the perimeter.

Inside, the pavilion was dim from the twilight and candles, but bright enough that the cheese, bread, and olives could be seen on the small dining table. Lyanna approached the food, but instantly recoiled, slapping a hand over her mouth.

"What's wrong?" Rhaegar asked with a frown.

Lyanna shook her head and darted out of the tent, Rhaegar following. She threw herself down on her hands and knees in the grass, heaving up chunks of vomit instantly. Rhaegar ran over, pulling back her hair, as Arthur looked on in alarm.

"Could you get some fruit please?" Rhaegar asked him absently, soothing a hand over Lyanna's back. "And more water as well." Arthur immediately went.

When Lyanna's stomach had finally calmed, she stood shakily and sucked in a breath of fresh night air. "I'm fine," she mumbled. "The baby didn't like the smell."

Her words sent a sharp thrill through him. "If you're sure," he said, looking her over. Arthur came back quickly, the water and fruit in his hands. Lyanna reached for the water and washed her mouth out, spitting it back into the ground over her sick. Rhaegar took the fruit and led Lyanna inside once more.

Then, he set the fruit on the table, taking away the cheese and olives and slipping them out to Arthur. Behind him, he tied the tent flaps together to ensure their privacy.

"Why are you doing this?" Lyanna finally asked, her voice like a whip through the peaceful silence.

Rhaegar clenched his jaw, and made himself comfortable on the makeshift bed of furs and blankets and pillows. "We need to talk."

She narrowed her eyes, but lowered to the bed beside him slowly, having pilfered an apple from the basket. "About..."

"About," he said, "what's going to happen once we get back to King's Landing."

Everything in her face changed: from angry and grudging to wary and suspicious. "What do you mean?"

Rhaegar's eyes fell down to her flat stomach, the sight of it still sending a rush of excitement through him. She may have been only a month or so pregnant, but imagining the life growing beneath her skin made his heart _ache_ with happiness. 

"You're pregnant with my heir," he said quietly, cautious even though Arthur would make sure no one could eavesdrop on his words. 

"It's time then?" Lyanna asked hopefully, but quiet still, following his lead.

"It's time," he answered. "We'll have to tell my father that you're with child, of course. I'm sure the rumors have already spread from the wedding. I may not have announced it forthright, but we were anything but discreet when you told me."

Lyanna frowned, casting her eyes down. The thought of sharing the news of their baby with Aerys discomfited her just as much as it did him, but there was nothing that could be done - not if Rhaegar wanted to keep his father believing everything was normal.

One wrong move...Aerys' paranoia was legendary in destruction. There was no coming back from fire, dragon's blood or not.

"He'll want to throw a feast in our honor," Rhaegar continued. "He'll want to invite the realm, to bask in his superiority."

"His superiority?" Lyanna dared to ask.

Rhaegar said, "Any Targaryen is worth a thousand others in his eyes." He paused. "After the realm has been made aware of your pregnancy, you will go to Dragonstone."

"Wait!" Lyanna interjected angrily. "Dragonstone?"

"Yes, Dragonstone," he replied, "I can't have you at the Red Keep when I take my father down. There are too many risks."

"Then what about Winterfell? Why can't I go there?"

Rhaegar sighed heavily. "It's too long a trip, and unsafe for a pregnant princess."

"I could take guards with me," she tried.

"No," he replied. "Dragonstone is safer." Lyanna worked her jaw, seeming to come back into that fire she'd had the day they left Riverrun, but Rhaegar plowed on before it could take hold. "I will say I'm going to Summerhall for a time. It won't cause much motion; I used to visit quite a bit."

"But really..." She said slowly.

"Really, I'll be riding to meet Tywin Lannister and his force."

Lyanna raised her brows. "Tywin Lannister?"

Rhaegar nodded. "He's agreed to back me in the deposition. From there we'll march on the capital."

Lyanna seemed to think this over, working her bottom lip with her teeth, before finally pointing out, "Casterly Rock boasts thousands and thousands of soldiers. Your host will be conspicuous, and word will get back to your father."

He'd known this, had thought of every possibility. "That's why you're going to be safely away at Dragonstone. My father will most likely be sent word that a massive Lannister army marches at his steps, with his own son leading beside Lord Tywin, but there is naught that he can do. I have the support of almost every major House in Westeros, with the strength of Casterly Rock at my back.

"There will be fighting and bloodshed, if I know my father, but I hope that I can remove him in particular without harm when all is said and done."

"Wishful thinking," she said under her breath. Then louder, "What about your mother and brother?"

"I'm going to try to get my father to send Viserys and my mother to Dragonstone with you."

"And if he won't?"

"If he won't," Rhaegar said, "there will be Maegor's Holdfast and Kingsguards there to protect them. Aerys won't kill them, but I cannot control every one of Tywin's men. Arthur and Oswell will be coming with me of course to meet Lord Tywin, but there will be Ser Barristan and Gerold and Lewyn and Jonothor..."

"And Jaime," Lyanna put in.

"Ser Jaime Lannister will be going with you to Dragonstone."

It had been a difficult decision; Rhaegar had wanted Barristan Selmy to go along with Lyanna, had been comforted in the fantasy of Barristan the Bold protecting his wife and unborn child.

Arthur had helped Rhaegar see the light, though. If Jaime Lannister was held back in King's Landing, and Aerys inevitably learned the news of Twyin Lannister marching on the city, there was no telling what the king would do to the Young Lion. And Rhaegar already owed Tywin so much, there was no way to replace his eldest son.

Therefore, Jaime would go with Lyanna, to safety.

"I will remove my father from the throne, and ascend myself. And at my code, you will be brought back to the city and annointed queen at my side."

Lyanna's eyes unfocused, going to a faroff place in her mind for several moments. "King Rhaegar," she tested it out.

"And Queen Lyanna," he added.

She snorted softly and bit into her apple. "Never thought I would hear that."

Rhaegar smiled, ducking his head. "It fits." And then, "And when our son is born, we can name him Aegon."

Lyanna grimaced, eyes flashing up. "Why are you so sure it's a boy?"

Rhaegar shrugged. "I just have a feeling."

Nearly every night since he found out Lyanna was pregnant, he dreamed of their children, all different variations of sizing and color, but one in particular was recurring: a tall, slim boy, much like Rhaegar in body, with dark brown hair and eyes that flashed steel grey and indigo by different lights.

"Well your feeling is wrong," Lyanna retorted, carving her teeth into the apple. "It's a girl."

"And you know this, how?"

She glanced up, grinning wickedly. "I just have a feeling." It was several long minutes of silence, her thinking and chewing on her apple, before she finally came out with it. "I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"What if you die?" She demanded, grey eyes lighting up with fire. "What if there's fighting like you said, or worse yet war...what if you get killed?"

It was not an easy possibility to stomach, but he endured it all the same. He reached forward with hesitance and placed his hand on her stomach. "Then this baby will be ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, girl or boy. My father will never again sit the Iron Throne once I'm finished."

The way Lyanna stared at him, it was as if _he_ were threatening to take his own life. "I don't want you to die," she whispered, her fiery eyes being doused by the tears that formed in them - angry tears, yes, but tears all the same.

Rhaegar smiled sadly. "Then I will do my very best to keep my heart beating for you."


	44. A King and Queen's Blessing

Rhaegar knew something was wrong the moment he entered the throne room. Court was in attendance, the long cavernous hall filled with the capital's dwellers as Aerys sat upon his iron seat, fidgeting restlessly as he glowered upon the onlookers. But the looks on their faces were wary and grim, as always when faced with the Mad King. 

"My beloved son returns," Aerys cackled with malice upon seeing him. The sound of his father's laugh sent goosebumps up Rhaegar's arms, sinister and thin and echoing off the walls. He suddenly felt very glad he'd sent Lyanna on to the Maidenvault. 

"Father," Rhaegar said respectfully, bowing his head. The Iron Throne loomed above him, monstrous and barbed, a hunk of melted steel; Aerys seemed so fragile, so small in it, as if the thousand Balerion-forged swords threatened to swallow him whole. 

"And where is your princess?" Aerys demanded, eyes twitching every which way as he searched for his son's Northern wife. Rhaegar could see the spittle flying from his mouth even from so far below, and wondered if the top of Ser Lewyn's head had grown damp from his post at the base. 

"Princess Lyanna is resting, Your Grace." _Away from you and your leering eyes_ , he thought privately. 

" _Resting_?" Aerys repeated sarcastically. "Does being carted around my kingdoms tire the little she-wolf so?"

Rhaegar fought to smoothe his face, lest his father see what he _really_ thought. Treason seemed to be set into every line and curve of his face, the truth of his deceit plain to read; Rhaegar was not a liar by nature, but he tamped down every urge to grimace and curse, and instead, mustered a smile. 

"The princess is tired because she is with child," Rhaegar informed the king. "A little over a month pregnant now." It still seemed surreal to say aloud, to acknowledge that he was going to be a _father_. 

Aerys clutched onto the barbed handles of his throne, not even flinching when a sword's tip pierced his skin; his blood immediately ran in rivulets around his arm, but he stared down Rhaegar in plain fascination. 

"Pregnant?" The king croaked. 

Rhaegar nodded. He did not like the _hope_ and _wonderment_ in his father's voice, that gentle lilt that was only ever reserved for special times. 

And special times usually foretold detriments. 

Aerys smiled, that cruel queer smile that Rhaegar had only ever seen bestowed upon Lyanna, though at present she was elsewhere. "Another Targaryen in this world is a splendid thing," the king said, grinning. Then louder, "we are to celebrate! My son, the Prince of Dragonstone is to be a father!"

The Court rang out with applause, but there was something off, something missing. Even with a hundred and some people in the room, it felt bare. Rhaegar looked around the room, seeing Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Maester Pycelle, Varys the Spider...

"We'll hold a tourney," Aerys decided suddenly, just as Rhaegar realized what was off. 

"Where is Lord Connington - your Hand?" He asked, fighting to keep accusation from his tone. 

At that, Aerys' face darkened, his eyes squinting and his mouth twisting. "Jon Connington has been stripped of his title as Hand," he sneered, "and sent back to his _lands_."

"You sent him back to Griffin's Roost?" Rhaegar asked in disbelief. "Why?"

Aerys was flippant. "Because I need a good, strong Hand at my side, not some lackluster fool. Lord Jon should be glad he even has _that_ title still. I could have exiled him to the farthest corners of the world, but I did not. I allowed him to keep his lands and inheritance. No one can accuse me of being a cruel king. In any case, Lord Qarlton Chelsted has been named Hand in replacement."

Rhaegar glanced back over, having entirely missed the mace-and-dagger lord; Qarlton Chelsted had been Master of Coin on the small council for some time already, and had proved faithful in that position. Though Rhaegar disliked Jon being sent back to Griffin's Roost like a wayward dog, Aerys had not picked someone _completely incompetent_ to succeed him. 

Rhaegar would need to call Jon back, though, once Aerys was off the throne for good. 

"Anyhow," Aerys growled impatiently, "a tourney for the new babe. It will be held in three weeks. Lord Qarlton!"

Qarlton Chelsted started, his eyes widening, then scurried forth like a faithful little servant. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"This tourney shall be grand, make it so that every lord in the realm can bear witness to the splendor of House Targaryen. Three weeks!" Aerys barked. Qarlton nodded, shaking in his boots. 

"That's soon," Rhaegar frowned. _I don't need a tourney_ , he thought, _I need you to live out your days on Dragonstone while my children grow happy and safe._

"Any later," Aerys replied angrily, "and your babe will be keeping the princess inside the castle all day long. And we don't want that."

Rhaegar did not like the gleam in Aerys' eyes when he talked of Lyanna, that twinkle that foretold of a deceased lion love that Rhaegar's wife inexplicably reminded Aerys of - but still, he bit his tongue and nodded anyway, like a faithful little treasonous crown prince. "If I may have your leave, Father, I would like to see Mother now."

He wondered if _she_ had been sent away in disgrace as well. Oh if only...it would make everything so much easier if his mother and brother were already whisked away to Dragonstone, away from the potential of his dangerous scheme for the crown, away from Aerys' fiery moods. 

Once Aerys nodded his assent, Rhaegar strode from the throne room, veering off toward the Maidenvault. In her room within, he found Lyanna rummaging through her trunks, huffing under her breath. 

The sight of her disheveled and displeased turned him on, though he'd never admit it. He swallowed, remembering his hand between her legs, overlooking the green lands and shimmering waters from a balcony at Riverrun. He wanted to touch her again...

"Lurk much?" Lyanna asked, squinting at him as he leaned in her doorway. 

He suppressed a smile, and asked, "Would you like to go see my mother with me?"

A true smile graced Lyanna's face. "Yes, of course."

She dusted off her skirt, pulled the trunk closed, and followed him from the Maidenvault, and to Maegor's Holdfast, where Ser Jonothor stood sentry - he was a rough man with dark eyes that held no softness nor sympathy to them, not even for the crown prince and his wife. 

"The king knows of your pregnancy," Rhaegar said quietly to Lyanna, once they were out of Ser Jonothor's presence. 

She scowled but stared straight ahead, marching like a dutiful soldier. "Happy, I presume?"

"Ecstatic," Rhaegar said dryly. _He's always too "happy" where you're concerned_ , he thought, with a barbed coil in his belly. 

"And Rhaella?" She asked. 

"Does not yet know," he finished, "I thought we could tell her together."

That seemed to cheer Lyanna's dampened spirits, and the glow to her skin returned. No Kingsguard guarded the queen's doors today, and her room was open. Inside, he could see his mother writing, but at the sound of their footsteps, she looked up, smiling at once. 

"Darlings!" She greeted them, ghosting forward to pull Lyanna into a hug almost immediately. Lyanna sank into her arms, melting like butter, clutching at Rhaella like a babe would its mother. 

Next, Rhaella came to embrace Rhaegar, humming against him. "Oh, I've missed you two. How was the wedding?" The queen had the most refined of manners and did not mention that the wrong Stark brother had been wed. 

"Beautiful," Lyanna answered with a fond smile, seating herself across from Rhaella's desk. "Lady Catelyn is a stunning woman. She'll make Ned a great wife."

Rhaella smiled that mother's smile, tugging at the collar of her dress to conceal the dark red splotches on her pale skin. "I'm so very glad to hear it, my girl. And how is my eldest boy on this fine morning? I did not even know you all had arrived back to the Keep."

"We only got to the city less than an hour ago," he told her. "I saw Father first. He replaced Jon as Hand."

Lyanna looked sharply at him, but Rhaella frowned and nodded. "He did. Lord Connington made the mistake of suggesting your father not... _burn_ any more prisoners before the eyes of Court."

Rhaegar's eyes fell closed as he sighed. "I see." It was a stupid mistake, but one that was unavoidable to those who did not know how to perform the careful dance of maneuvering his father's whims and follies. 

"Well," he said, clearer this time, "we have good news."

"Oh?" Rhaella eyed them both curiously. 

"I'm pregnant," Lyanna said quietly, watching for a reaction. 

Rhaella did not disappoint. "Oh, you lovely girl, how wonderful." She came around the desk and enveloped Lyanna in a hug once more. When she pulled back, she looked down to Lyanna's flat belly. "May I?"

Lyanna chucked, amused. "There's nothing to see or feel yet, but be my guest."

Rhaella sank to her knees before Lyanna, pressing her hands to the princess' stomach carefully. Tears slipped down the queen's cheeks freely, and she muffled a sob. "Oh, a new babe, what a blessing it will be. And from the blood of my eldest and his beautiful wife, as well. I could not be happier."

Rhaegar smiled sadly. Rhaella was not dealt much happiness in life, but to see her erupt with joy at the news of _his_ heir, brought out the spirit of the little boy he'd been once, the boy who only cared what his mother thought and no one else. 

"Mother?" A child's voice asked from the door. Viserys looked confused, and his caretaker Lanna as well, at the sight of the queen kneeling before the princess. "What are you doing, Mother?"

Rhaella sniffed and grinned, beckoning Viserys over. "Come, darling, come."

Viserys ran over, putting one hand on Rhaella's teary cheek, and the other absentmindedly on Lyanna's knee. "Why are you sad, Mother?"

"I'm _happy_ ," Rhaella corrected him. She looked up at Lyanna, beaming with motherly pride. 

"Guess what," Lyanna whispered, leaning forward to stare into Viserys' eyes. "I have a secret."

"What is it?" He started bouncing, having no patience whatsoever when it came to secrets, and clutched his little hands in Lyanna's skirts. "Tell me, Lya, _tell me_!"

Lyanna put a hand to her belly. "You have a little niece or nephew growing in here."

The small prince's eyes widened like two twilight lilac moons. "You're pregnant?" Lyanna nodded. "Lya's pregnant!" He shrieked, vaulting himself into Lyanna's lap before scrambling up to hug her. 

"Vis," Rhaegar chided him, "be careful, you could hurt the babe."

"Oh," Viserys frowned, settling into her lap and putting his hands to her stomach. "The baby," he sighed. "Why can't I feel anything? Why isn't it _moving_?"

"It's too early for that," Rhaella told him gently, having gone back to sit in her chair. 

Viserys made a dissatisfied noise in his throat, but continued to touch Lyanna's belly. "What will you name him?" He asked with wonder in his voice. 

"I'm not sure," Lyanna played along, "we don't know if it's a boy or a girl yet."

"Hm," Viserys ventured, "well if it's a boy, you should name him Balerion."

Lyanna chuckled. "Balerion is a dragon's name," she explained patiently. 

Viserys pushed his little hands to her belly insistently. With all the worldliness of a maester, he told her, "And that's a dragon in there. Rhaegar has dragonblood, same as me. Your baby does, too."

Lyanna smiled down at Viserys fondly, tucking little wisps of silver-gold hair from his face. "I suppose you're right, little one. But it's a wolf as well, and before the dragons came, there were Kings of Winter in the North."

"Was your grandfather a king?" Viserys wondered. 

"No," Lyanna said, "but my ancestors were."

Viserys pursed his lips, chewing on that morsel of information. "So the baby will be a dragon _and_ a wolf?"

Lyanna nodded. "A winged wolf." Those three words stirred up the memory of the night Lyanna had confessed the maegi's fortune to him and Arthur and Oswell on their way to the capital from Harrenhal. _My three, my promised prince..._ he thought desperately. 

" _Or_ ," Viserys added, "an ice dragon. Like from the Shivering Sea. I learned about them! They're bigger than normal dragons, and they're made of ice and crystals." He suddenly looked to Rhaegar, for confirmation, for kinship. 

"Maybe, Vis," Rhaegar allowed wistfully. _Maybe._

After that, Viserys climbed down from Lyanna's lap, only to stand by her side and whisper tales of mighty dragons and dragonriders and dragonknights and dragonkings to her stomach, all while Rhaella listened, amused, and Lyanna stroked his pale hair tenderly. 

Watching her, it was easy for Rhaegar to get lulled into the image of Lyanna and Viserys together. For a moment he could trick his eyes into believing he was seeing Lyanna with their son, bending to press a kiss into his hair as the boy whispered sweet words to her belly. But, no, that was all wrong. 

Of all the dreams he'd had in his life, Rhaegar was unfailingly certain of one, the dream that had recurred every night since learning Lyanna was pregnant. 

The Prince That Was Promised - _their_ promised prince - would be tall and dark and lean and indigo-eyed...

And the bringer of light.


	45. Spiders, Dragons, and Lions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I just wanted to reiterate for all the readers - new and old - that there will be NO cheating in this story.**

Peace was a fragile thing, thin and delicate as a new bride's veil, easily wasted, easily decimated, easily disturbed. Rhaegar's peace lasted all of five days. 

He went to bed that last night of peace, his mind wracked with thoughts of riding to Casterly Rock, of meeting with and rousing Lord Tywin's soldiers and marching them back to his home to root out his king father, to cage and lock away the mad dragon once and for all. 

And when he'd eventually fallen asleep, his dreams were filled with _that_ boy - the boy that was tall and long-legged and slender as a sword, whose hair was a shaggy tumble of lazy brown curls, whose skin was pale as winter snows, whose eyes were so dark they seemed black but for when the light caught them, and then they were two brilliant chips of indigo. 

In the dream, _that boy_ had wielded a magnificent sword, a sword whose blade ran with the colors of flickering flame and radiated heat like the breath of a living dragon, felling crystal demons like they were no more than spun glass. 

A rough voice awakened him from that slumber, the tone insistent and gruff. "Your Highness," it called, "wake up."

Rhaegar's eyes pried open, flicking instantly to the window where the moon and stars still ruled the nighttime skies, as deep and dark as liquid onyx. His chambers were shrouded in nightfall as well, his fire having burnt out sometime in his sleep. 

At his bedside, hovering over him, was Ser Lewyn - the Dornishman's face was dark and cold, his black eyes hard. "Your Highness," he repeated, "the king has summoned you. Immediately."

Rhaegar frowned, sensing that something was amiss. He immediately thought of everything that could be wrong: his mother dead, Lyanna hurt, rebels attacking the city. 

He climbed from bed with weary muscles, pulling a wrinkled tunic over his head and slipping into worn breeches. After that, he followed grim Ser Lewyn through the maze of Maegor's and toward the king's apartments. 

Within, Aerys was pacing the length of his bedchambers like a caged lion, muttering dark words beneath his breath, scowling so deep Rhaegar was sure the king would have several more lines to his face once the night was spent. 

And sat across from the king's desk, meek and powdered and dressed in lilac robes, was Varys the Spider, looking the very picture of concerned innocence. He watched Rhaegar as he entered the room, his face devoid of emotion but for the sly glint in those all-knowing eyes. 

"Father," Rhaegar said, catching Aerys' attention. 

The king stopped, turning that suspicious glare on his son. "He's done it, Rhaegar, he's done it." There was a hysterical edge to his voice and a shake to his bones.

Rhaegar frowned, furrowing his brows. "Who?"

"That smug, self-satisfied _lion_ ," Aerys growled, clenching his fists. His nine-inch nails scraped against his own skin, slicing at the scabs that grew from long, absent-minded years sitting the Iron Throne. 

"Ser Jaime?" Rhaegar immediately asked. What could Jaime have done? The boy was always either with his fellow White Swords, guarding Lyanna, or sleeping. Surely Jaime could not have committed any atrocity without Rhaegar knowing first. 

"No," Aerys spat, "not the young lion, his _sire_. Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and _bane_ of my existence."

The only thing Rhaegar could think was _he found out, he knows, he's learned of my treason._ But if that were true, Aerys would waste no time in lighting the prince up, spectators be damned. This was something else...if Aerys even suspected or lumped Rhaegar with Tywin, he'd have been dead before he woke, or at least within the hour. 

And he wouldn't be engaging Rhaegar in conversation. The fetish for wildfire was too strong in the king. No...this was something else. But what?

"What has Lord Tywin done?" Rhaegar asked slowly, dreading the answer. 

"He plots," Aerys replied, "and schemes, and pouts on his golden rock while he plans to attack me in _my_ city!"

Rhaegar's heart nearly stopped. His father knew then. But to what extent? The only thing keeping his skin from burning to a crisp was the total lack of his name attached to the very plans he himself had contrived.

"Tell him, Varys," Aerys commanded angrily, going to resume his manic pacing. 

Varys shifted, tucking his hands into the huge billowing sleeves of his robes. His pale powdered face turned to Rhaegar's own, adopting a mask of utter disappointment. 

"The king speaks it true," Varys said sadly, "I throw my little birds to the wind and back they fly, with secrets and confidences from all corners of the world. Days, weeks, months, it takes time, but come back they do. And this time, they brought me gold. Treason covered in Lannister gold."

Rhaegar stared back wide-eyed, his heart in his throat. He could not say a word, could not conjure a thought or remark. His very life hinged upon what Varys said next - his life and Lyanna's and their child's as well. He had to be silent. 

"One of my little birds has informed me that Lord Tywin has gathered a council of his most trusted and powerful bannermen," Varys said. "They whisper treason on the Rock, of marching on King's Landing and deposing your royal father of his throne."

"How can you be sure?" Rhaegar heard himself ask, though his mind was spinning and adrenaline was racing through his body.

Varys the Spider smirked. "My methods may be my own, but they do not fail. The lion lord plots against your father. For now, it has not gone any further than mere talk, but I fear that in a year's turn, the capital will bleed Targaryen and Lannister red."

Aerys shrieked in madness. "Tywin has never been grateful for what he has. When he was my Hand, he presumed too much, let it be whispered that _he_ ruled the realm in my stead, allowed it to be thought that I was unfit for the throne. 

"He saw Joanna love me, was jealous that the dragon had ensnared the lioness, so what did he do? He plotted and took her from me, and had three lion cubs by her, while I stood on and watched."

 _'You remind me of someone I used to know many years past'_ , Rhaegar remembered his father saying to Lyanna at that dinner so many months ago. _'Joanna Lannister. She had blonde hair and green eyes of course, but she had the loveliest face, fashioned right from the stars. The gods saw fit to grace her with a beauty that was almost unbearable. You're like her in that sense.'_

The voice of Aerys in Rhaegar's memories dimmed as the father before him continued to rant, "Tywin begged me to marry you, _my heir_ , the crown prince to his lowly golden daughter, Cersei. And when I refused him, he resigned from his office and sulked back to his _rock_ , licking his wounded pride all the way home. 

"And _now_ he schemes, for his wounded pride, for his utter selfishness that will not allow him to be content with his station. He presumed and plotted, and now he plans to take the dragon unawares."

Aerys' chuckle was a cold, cold thing. "Well, Lord Tywin has another thing coming. For lions may be mighty, but dragons rise above. And he will find to his detriment that cats burn just as quickly as them all."

Rhaegar felt the small hairs on the back of his neck rising at the disturbing tone of his father's speech, at the ferocity of it. It seemed that Tywin's involvement in Rhaegar's plan had been made known, rooted out by Varys' espionage, but funnily - or most thankfully - enough, Rhaegar did not seem to be attached to the news at all. 

"What will you do?" Rhaegar wondered, fearful of the answer. 

Aerys faced his son and _smiled_. "My son, you are the key to this lock."

Rhaegar swallowed, studying the king, then glanced at Varys. "How do I fit into this?"

Aerys said, "I'm sending you to Casterly Rock. I want you to go to the lion's den, pluck out those little cats, and escort them back here to await my justice. The tourney celebrating your child will have to be delayed until their executions can be made public."

"Your Grace," Varys interjected, "perhaps the prince could put down Lord Tywin at the Rock, where his people could see their liege lord's follies laid bare."

"No," Aerys said calmly, serenely. "My son will go to Casterly Rock, and arrest Lord Tywin and those lords of his involved with this treason, and escort them all back to the Keep. Their executions will be seen by all of Court and those in the realms that wish to bear witness. The lion will die with a crowd at his feet, and fire upon his bones one way or another."

Though Rhaegar felt dizzy and stressed, he found the silver lining in this madness. With Aerys' permission, Rhaegar could safely ride to Casterly Rock by the goldroad with no fear of royal suspicion, and arrive quicker than originally planned. 

Of course, with the new development of Aerys' knowledge of Tywin plotting, Rhaegar could no longer escort the entirety of the Lannister army back to the capital. Varys' birds would be keeping their eyes out for the prince and the lion on the way back, and he could not risk being shut out of the city's gates before he even arrived just because the sheer numbers gave away his secret. 

"When shall I leave?" Rhaegar asked, eager to get back to bed, eager to do a million and one other things. 

"As soon as possible," Aerys said, seemingly calmed at the thought of the Dragon Prince caging the lion and dragging him before the king's feet. 

"I'll leave in two days," Rhaegar said. "I'd like to bring Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell with me, if possible. In case Lord Tywin puts up a struggle."

Aerys nodded. "Very well. You'll bring Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan as well."

"So many White Swords, Your Grace?" Varys squeaked. 

"I'll still have Lewyn and Jonothor...and Jaime," Aerys murmured, his eyes going off to some far place. 

"Father," Rhaegar broached the subject delicately, "I would like to send Ser Jaime with Lyanna to Dragonstone. She'll be safe there, away in case Lord Tywin has hired any lurking sellswords within these city walls. Mother and Viserys should go as well."

Aerys ground his teeth, working his jaw over. "Your wife may go to Dragonstone, but your mother and brother will stay here with me. They are _my_ family. Lyanna _will_ come back to see the lions put down once and for all, though. But Jaime will stay here, in the black cells perhaps."

Rhaegar could feel his plans slipping through his fingers; if he left Jaime to rot - or worse, to die - Rhaegar would never be able to pay back the debt he owed Tywin Lannister, and then he would have a completely different monster to contend with. "I can imprison Jaime at Dragonstone," he lied. 

"I can imprison Ser Jaime _here_ ," Aerys insisted, eyes flaring in cruel delight. 

"Yes," Rhaegar offered, "but even the Lannisters have friends in King's Landing, and Ser Jaime could bribe his way out of the black cells with the promise of gold. Dragonstone is no friend to Casterly Rock, and the Young Lion could rot there with no way out while his lord father is being escorted to the capital."

Rhaegar's words washed over Aerys' face like a balm, and the man grinned, infinitely pleased. "Yes," he chuckled, "yes. I like it. Let the lion have a taste of dragon cells, then drag him back to King's Landing to watch his father burn." He turned his eyes to Rhaegar. "My son, I knew you had the dragon in you."

Rhaegar felt sick to his stomach from the lie. Of course, Jaime wouldn't be imprisoned once he went to Dragonstone with Lyanna, but Rhaegar would have to arrange for only trustworthy, faithful servants to be around the knight and the princess lest the king become aware of Rhaegar's deceit. 

Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan accompanying him to Casterly Rock was a completely new development. Rhaegar wondered how Ser Barristan would react once he found out that he did not ride to imprison Tywin, but to ride _with him_ , against the mad dragon Barristan fought and lived to protect. Ser Gerold would be easier, he knew, the Hightower knight having no real love for his king, preferring the prince openly, but with subtle grace. 

"I'll start the preparations for my departure as soon as the sun rises," Rhaegar promised, inclining his head. "If I may have your leave to return to my chambers?"

Aerys waved his hand absently, signaling the end of his interest. Varys stood, though. "I'll walk with you, Your Highness."

Through Maegor's, the Spider shuffled beside him quietly, his slippers whispering against the stone floor. Though, once Rhaegar reached his room, murmuring a 'good night', he heard Varys' calculated departing words. 

"I wish you luck on your golden mission, Your Highness."

* * *

Rhaegar slept fitfully after that, his dreams dark and bloody, his promised prince woefully absent. Instead, he dreamt of lions and dragons, quarreling with flames and fangs, while spiders crawled in masses over the walls and floors. 

When he woke, Rhaegar knew that arranging passage for Lyanna and Jaime to Dragonstone was of the utmost importance. He couldn't have either of them in the capital for long once he'd departed. 

So he dressed and fetched Arthur and Oswell, filling them in carefully on what had happened in the night, then went about securing a ship for his wife and the Kingsguard. 

Rhaegar found out that one of their galleys - _Silverscale_ it was called - was sailing back from Oldtown after being sent for more herbs and potions and medicines for Maester Pycelle's stores, and would be arriving back to the capital in a few days. 

He wrote out a quick letter stating that _Silverscale_ was to take Lyanna and a list of allotted people to Dragonstone, then sealed it with his own seal, before marching to see Ser Jaime Lannister. 

He found the Young Lion standing post at the godswood's entrance, tall and slim and golden-haired, his face wiped of emotion. 

"Is the princess praying?" Rhaegar asked first. 

Jaime nodded. "She is."

"I was hoping you would go riding with me," Rhaegar smiled. "The kingswood perhaps..."

"Of course," Jaime said immediately, dutifully. There was hero worship in his eyes, and it was almost enough to erase every suspicious thought Rhaegar had ever had of the boy. Almost. 

"Good," Rhaegar turned, "Ser Arthur will stay with Princess Lyanna for now. Oswell, see to it personally that this gets flown." He handed over the small secret coiled scrawl; on the inside it read _goldroad_ , the code word he and Tywin Lannister had agreed upon months ago, to signal that Rhaegar was coming to Casterly Rock. 

Oswell left, and together, Rhaegar and Ser Jaime made their way to the stables where two horses awaited them. They mounted in silence and rode fast from the Keep to the kingswood, where the forestry stood tall and closed in thick, nothing but sky and trees privy to their talk. 

"Ser Jaime, we should speak."

Alarm registered in Jaime's green eyes, but his face remained artfully passive. "About, Your Highness?"

"Your loyalty."

Jaime frowned instantly. "My loyalty? I am loyal to the crown, as befits my vows."

"Yes," said Rhaegar slowly, "but to whom? The king...or me?"

There was utter, pregnant silence following his words, as Jaime struggled to keep his face straight, but failing as a thousand and one emotions flickered across his features. 

"This is not a trick," Rhaegar sought to assure him. "But I need to know that I can trust you, to know that you are on my side."

"Your side?" Jaime repeated in a whisper. 

"Yes. Changes are coming, Ser Jaime, and I mean to herald them in. My father is no longer fit to sit the throne, and the realm suffers beneath his hand."

Jaime had gone white, no doubt recalling one of the many times he'd stood watch whilst some man, woman, or child burned alive in the Great Hall. 

"I've been meaning to make these changes for a while," the prince confided, "but circumstances have forced me to wait. Until now."

Jaime studied his prince, green eyes cautious yet flaring with relief. "You mean to depose your father, and ascend as king?"

Rhaegar nodded. "I cannot allow his sins to continue. I have been planning this for a long time, gathering loyalty, gathering support. Your own father has agreed to back me in my efforts."

"My father?" Jaime repeated, as if he were not surprised at all. 

"I'd planned on sneaking to Casterly Rock, and picking up the Lannister army to march on the capital to overthrow my father, but Varys and his birds have changed those plans. 

"Somehow your father has been solely implicated in the plot to seize the throne, and the king has ordered me to ride to Casterly Rock and arrest Lord Tywin, as well as his co-conspirators, and bring them back to be dealt justice."

"Are you? Going to arrest him, that is." Jaime's face was carefully wiped clean of judgement or fear, but Rhaegar could smell it all over him. 

"No," Rhaegar said at once. "If anything, my father has only made my journey easier. I will ride to Casterly Rock, of course, and I will have to hide Lord Tywin in drab clothing to appear as if he is a chastened traitor, but his armor will be packed along. I cannot take as many Lannister soldiers as I had initially planned either, so as not to raise suspicion."

Jaime blew out a sharp breath. "And what is my role in this?"

Rhaegar glanced out at the trees. "The king wanted you thrown in the black cells, for the crime of having Lannister blood, but I convinced him to let me send you to Dragonstone for imprisonment instead."

Jaime's green eyes flew wide open, startled. 

"Don't worry," Rhaegar said, "I'm not imprisoning you. You _are_ going to Dragonstone, but only to guard the princess."

"Lyanna is going, too?" Jaime blurted out suddenly, using her name so casually in the heat of the moment. 

Rhaegar flinched, but forced himself to move on. _Lyanna would not betray me by laying with the lion, nor anyone else._ But Jaime...no, he had more important matters to think on. 

"I cannot have my wife in the castle, open for the potential of harm, from my father _or_ Lannister soldiers. I want her and my heir at Dragonstone. With you."

"Yes, Your Highness, I understand."

Rhaegar leaned from the saddle and settled a hand on Jaime's steeled shoulder. "Tell no one of what we have said here today. Varys' spies are everywhere, and nowhere is clean."

Jaime nodded seriously. "I won't. Not even with the princess."

"I'm counting on you," Rhaegar told him gravely. "Not only as a spoke in my wheel, but also to keep Lyanna safe." He implored the Young Lion with his eyes, hoping beyond hope he could read the absolute desperation there. 

"Keep her safe, Ser Jaime," Rhaegar said, "no matter what."


	46. A Pairing for Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Just a little visual to go along with the words...**    
>   
> 

Lyanna’s heart beat lazily in her chest, deep, slow beats that resonated within her like the bang of a drum on a warpath. She felt it rattle her chest, take hold of her throat, pulse in her eyes. 

Along her skin, the first fingers of an oncoming winter caressed her bare legs, a false spring giving way to chill. Her skin prickled, all the warmth of her recent bath siphoned away. The thin robe she wore did little to help her chill from the open window, the ivory satin clinging to her torso and hips but providing no heat.

She lay sprawled across the bed, her wet hair slicked back and pooling damp against the pillows. Lyanna briefly considered calling her maidservants back with hot stones, to feel them against her skin, to give her baby the _heat_ it craved, but before she could, her door rattled with a series of knocks.

Frowning, Lyanna propped herself up by her elbows, the vee of her robe gaping slightly. It was late, far too late for any visitors. "Come in!"

The door groaned when it swung open, protesting. The first thing she saw was a pair of dirty boots, then long legs in black breeches, a billowy tunic, and lastly her husband’s pale face. In the dark of night and the moon, his hair looked like a stream of starlight, his skin ivory.

"Hello," she said, surprised. She’d not seen her husband much since the day he broke the news of Aerys’ knowledge of his plans; well, half-knowledge really, since only Tywin Lannister was implicated in the conspiracy, and Rhaegar had not been mentioned in conjunction at all. 

Rhaegar’s eyes strayed to the bathtub that had been left behind, filled with the filmy water she’d bathed in. Next to that, her table was filled with dirty plates, wiped clean of their food.

"Well," he said in slight amusement, "I was going to ask you to dinner, but it seems I was too late."

Lyanna smiled sadly. "Sorry. If I had known…"

"It’s no matter," Rhaegar interrupted, "I just…wanted an excuse to spend some time with you before I left."

Her chest tightened. Rhaegar was leaving in the morning to ride to Casterly Rock under the guise of arresting Lord Tywin and his co-conspirators for treason; in reality, he was riding to meet and join forces with the Lion of Lannister so that he could once and for all depose his mad father.

"No excuse necessary," she murmured, sliding over to the far side of the bed. Then she reached out an arm and patted the empty space she’d abandoned. "Lay down with me." She was too tired to do much else, her dragonbabe having drawn most of her energy.

At once it seemed that Rhaegar suddenly became aware of the scantily manner of her dress – the satin robe was tied loosely about her waist, showcasing a fair amount of cleavage, and was not so long that three quarters of her legs were bared to his eyes.

The wind and his eyes made her shiver.

Rhaegar bent his leg back and kicked the door shut behind him, then toed off his dirty boots, leaving them limp on her floor. He ghosted to her bed, climbing on before lying next to her, his silver hair splayed across her pillows.

She let her head fall to the side to admire him, and he did the same, those strange indigo eyes bright and alive. The open window blew forth a chilling breeze and she shivered.

"I suppose winter is actually coming," he muttered. She immediately thought of her House’s words, and what Winterfell probably looked like at that exact moment, white and pure and covered in crystal. 

"I’ve always loved winter," she confessed. "The blankets of snow, the icicles hanging like knives from the rooves of Winterfell." She chuckled. "I used to snap them off and play at being an Other, while I chased Benjen around with my ‘ice dagger.’"

Rhaegar smiled in content. "I can imagine our child will be much the same."

Just hearing him say _our child_ made her heart skip a beat. She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well _your_ child is changing all my internal preferences. I used to love the cold, and now I can barely stand any room or bath unless it’s heavy with heat.”

 _That_ gave Rhaegar cause to grin, the smile lighting up his entire face. “It’s my dragonblood it inherited,” he explained softly.

Lyanna glanced down at her stomach, still flat, but gaining softness now. “What if it’s a girl?” She blurted out, looking at him. 

“What _if_ it’s a girl?” He challenged back, shrugging. He considered her. “What would you like to name it if it’s a girl?”

It shouldn’t have surprised her that he wanted to have her opinion on the name, but it did. She didn’t even register thought before she said, “Rhaella, after your mother.”

Rhaegar’s lips parted in surprise, his eyes brimming with adoration. “Truly?”

Lyanna nodded. Rhaella had been more a mother to her than she’d ever had before; her own mother had died birthing Benjen, and though Old Nan had done her best as a female figure, Lyanna was still left wanting – half a boy and half a wolf, she excelled at swordplay and horse riding and playing tricks on her brothers.

She couldn’t think of another woman she’d more like to honor than the Targaryen queen; she was a paragon of strength, having endured the tyranny and abuse from her brother-husband, while still remaining kind and loving.

“If it’s a boy…” Lyanna ventured.

“Aegon,” said Rhaegar immediately.

Lyanna grimaced. “No, I don’t think so.” He hadn’t specifically phrased his answer in a manner that granted leeway, but the name Aegon for another Targaryen king gave her significant pause.

“Why not?” He frowned.

“There have been too many King Aegons already in your dynasty,” she explained carefully, “and none of them had particularly great reigns or endings. I would not grant that curse to our child.”

Rhaegar blinked in surprise, speechless for several long moments. “What would you have him named then?”

Lyanna thought. If she were truly going to pick a name for their son, a name for their heir and future king to succeed Rhaegar, she would not go through the index of Targaryen rulers, or even their sons. She would name him after a King of Winter – not Torrhen, after the Kneeler; and not Brandon after Bran the Builder, for Ned or Brandon himself might like to use that name; not Walton or Edwyn, either.

Jon Stark, though, King in the North and King of Winter who’d raised the castle Wolf’s Den to protect the North from searaiders. She tested the name in her mind, and then tasted it on her tongue.

“Jon,” she smiled. “After King Jon Stark of the North.”

“A simple name,” Rhaegar granted, “but a good name. A _king’s_ name.” His eyes flicked down to her belly, and his fingers smoothed over the coverlet before molding to the expanse of her stomach. His touch sent tingles through her body, sharp and lovely. She shivered again.

“I always assumed my son would be named Aegon,” he admitted softly, his eyes and mind somewhere far. “When I was young, I was bookish, more interested in reading and writing than playing with the boys and knights in the yard. Everyone whispered I was Baelor the Blessed come again.

“I let their words slide away, unaffected by the talk. Until one day…” He paused heavily.

Lyanna was intrigued by the direction of his words. “Until one day,” she prompted.

Rhaegar’s eyes flashed up, as if surprised she was engaging him. “One day I was reading a book that my great-great uncle Aemon had recently gifted me, a great tome of Targaryen history and prophecy. Within it spoke of a night that would one day befall the world, an everlasting night that would bring with it terrors of ice and darkness.”

Lyanna’s throat was tight as the picture he painted came alive. Though the only thing that came to her mind was Old Nan’s stories of wights and the Others, beautiful demons made of ice, that could cut through bone and steel and muscle as easy as a knife cut butter. She shook off the thought, not understanding why _they_ had come to mind when they’d been gone for thousands of years.

“The book also spoke of a savior that would be born to bring about the destruction of these terrors, and herald in the Eternal Summer.” He glanced up at her, uncertain. “The Prince That Was Promised, he was called, and I thought he and I were one and the same. That day, I went to the yard and asked Ser Willem for a sword and armor.

“My grandfather, King Jaehaerys, was once told by a woods witch that the Promised Prince would be borne from his line, thus why he married my father and mother together.”

It was so much to take in, but all Lyanna could think of – with utter shock – was Maggy the Frog’s words: _‘Your three children will be the greatest that the world has ever seen, your firstborn the Promised One.’_

Lyanna felt so dizzy she was scared she would pass out. She wondered if Rhaegar was only spinning a story to her, repeating what she’d told him of the fortune that night they’d camped in the Crownlands. But no…Rhaegar’s story was so _specific_.

“I thought I was the Promised Prince for a long time,” Rhaegar went on, “but I realized I couldn’t be. The signs weren’t there…”

“Signs?” Lyanna asked.

“The prophecy of the prince was regarded with signs of his coming,” he explained, “a bleeding star heralding his destiny, and a song…”

“A song,” Lyanna repeated doubtfully.

Rhaegar’s purple eyes were knives in her skin, and his palm was fire against her belly. “His is the song of ice and fire.”

Ice and fire, fire and ice. All thoughts of this combination came rushing back at Lyanna so quickly, it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. 

_‘Your three children will be the greatest that the world has ever seen, your firstborn the Promised One. And their blood will freeze and flame with that of ice and fire,’_ Maggy had rasped at her in that black tent at Harrenhal.

And then, Howland Reed’s all-knowing, ageless voice, as he leaned on her after she had saved him from those three craven squires. Benjen had asked the little crannogman what he was doing at the tournament, since they didn’t usually leave the Neck. 

Howland had smiled and said, _‘I thought I might bear witness to a song. It’s an ancient song, older than words themselves. A song that represents the Eternal Summer. The song of ice and fire.’_

Lyanna thought she might be sick. Crannogmen were thought to have the greensight, the ability to know of future events with only their mind’s eye. Could he have known, even then? Had Howland foreseen her union with Rhaegar, her eventual bearing of his children, of his _prince_?

“When you admitted what that fortune teller told you, that night we camped and Oswell questioned you about the black tent,” Rhaegar said quietly, rubbing his hand over her stomach, “I almost passed out. Though I was certain I was not the Promised Prince, I believed he would come from my line somehow. And then you confirmed it with your words, and I had never felt relief so heavenly.”

Lyanna’s wide eyes met his. “Relief?”

He nodded, his face a mask of wariness, like he feared she would hit him or scream or leave. “You were meant to be mine, as I was yours. Our child will have the blood of dragons and winter flowing in their veins, the blood of ice and fire.”

Lyanna exhaled a shuddering breath, overcome with so many images and thoughts of prophecy and fortunes, of icicles freezing along the ridges of Winterfell, of a great black dragon’s breath.

“I’m sorry if I've said too much,” Rhaegar murmured sadly, observing her reaction.

Lyanna shook her head. It was a lot to take in, but his every word filled her with a great…contentment? It was as if the last puzzle piece had shifted into place somehow, like a hole had been filled, though she hadn’t known there was any empty space at all. 

She wanted to ask a million and one questions. She wanted to ask none.

“You never mentioned this before,” she whispered.

Rhaegar ran his teeth along his bottom lip. “It wasn’t until recently that we even consummated our marriage,” he pointed out, “I didn’t want to scare you off with all this talk of prophecy and doom.”

She thought of Maggy the Frog. She thought of Howland Reed.

Instead, she asked, “Why Aegon then? Why did you want to name him Aegon?” _If it is a ‘him’ inside me_ , she thought.

“The prophecy,” he explained, “speaks of a Promised Prince, but two others as well. The dragon has three heads. After I learned I was not the prince, I always thought I would name my children after the Conquerer and his sisters.”

“And if it’s not a boy and two girls? What then?” Her voice was light, but she was dizzy with connecting Rhaegar’s words of, _‘the dragon has three heads’_ , and Maggy’s, _‘Your three children will be the greatest that the world has ever seen’_.

“Then I’ll be just as happy,” he answered seriously. He cast his eyes down to watch his hand stroke over her stomach. Slowly, he bent and placed his lips on her belly, searing her with heat, even through her robe. “I will love each and every one of them,” he promised in a whisper on her body.

Lyanna threaded her fingers through his silver hair, and he looked up. He was so fucking beautiful, she could not stand it. She clenched her fingers in his roots and tugged up, so that he slid up her body and claimed her mouth with his.

It was like taking a breath of air after drowning, the relief was so palpable. His mouth was full and hot against hers, his hands pulling her hips flush against his. She felt heat bubbling in her belly, and wondered not for the first time if it was her baby filling her with such desire for its father, or if it was lust borne deep in her bones for her husband.

Either way, she wanted him, as incontestably as she wanted home and the Mad King gone and the realm safe. Lightly, she pushed on Rhaegar’s shoulders until he drew back, confused. She put her hands to the knot of her robe’s belt, fumbling with it as she attempted to untie it.

Sensing her trouble, Rhaegar took the knot from her and deftly undid it, allowing the slashes of satin to fall at her sides. Then, keeping eye contact with her the entire time, he slid his fingers beneath the edges of her robe where it lay against her collarbones, and pushed each side back until her entire naked body was revealed to him – chest and ribs and stomach and hips and thighs and legs, all on display in naked glory as she shrugged the thing off entirely.

His eyes eventually left hers, falling down the length of neck, over the swell of her breasts, down the slope of her stomach, between her thighs and down her legs. “You,” he breathed, “are so gorgeous.”

Feeling the situation unfair, she curled her hands at the hem of his tunic and tugged upward. Rhaegar seemed to understand, reaching one hand behind his neck and tugging the shirt off in a smooth, quick motion. His chest was just as she had remembered it – lean and hard and pale in the moonlight.

She ran her hands down his chest reverently, feeling the way his muscles shifted beneath her palms as he shuddered. Carefully, Rhaegar molded his body atop hers, kicking her knees apart so that he could rest in the cradle of her thighs.

The material of his breeches was unpleasant against her legs, but his bare chest on hers was better than anything she’d ever felt. He put his mouth on her neck and stamped her skin with his lips, while she panted, the cold air of the open window forgotten as he shared his heat. 

Without realizing what she was doing, her hands went to his pants, yanking on the ties there. Rhaegar stilled, watching as she unlaced the breeches. After that, he struggled but was successful in helping her pull the pants and smallclothes down his hips, and off his legs, before throwing them in a heap to the floor.

Rhaegar immediately went back to kiss across her throat, teething the ridges of her collarbones as light as a cat. Both as nude as their name days, and writhing against each other needily, she reached between their bodies to touch him; he was harder than iron, but his skin was as soft as the satin of her shucked robe.

He gasped into her neck, then moaned, the sound of it jolting through her like lightning. He disentangled his fingers from her hair and snaked them down to where her hand encircled his cock, molding his fingers around hers and stroking their hands around him, soft and slow, as he buried his head in her ribcage, panting.

She squirmed beneath him, wanting to touch him more, wanting him to touch her. There were so many thoughts in her head, ice and fire and lust battling for dominance, that it seemed to clean her mind of any coherence, leaving her a twisted tangled jumbled array of feelings.

And then suddenly his mouth was back on hers, his hand having abandoned hers to drag maddeningly slow across the peak of one breast, his calloused palm rasping magnificently on her skin like a needle on silk.

She slid her tongue into his mouth, still pumping her hand around his hard length. Lyanna sucked in a greedy breath of his air, “I want,” she said into his mouth, too dizzy with lust to finish her thought.

Rhaegar pulled away, staring down at her with hazy half-lidded eyes, his lips swollen and red, slick from her tongue. He looked as drunk as she felt. Nevertheless, he seemed to understand her meaning.

“Yeah?” He whispered, searching her face.

She didn’t even hesitate to nod. She unwrapped her hand from his cock, and grabbed onto his broad, pale shoulders to anchor her heart and soul from soaring. Rhaegar gave her one last long look, allowing her a chance out of this, before dropping his head. 

He took himself in hand and positioned himself between her legs, his satin skin hot as fire on her aching sex. She knew what to expect this time, their second time ever joining bodies.

Their first coupling had been as painful as it had been surprising. Having been raised by brothers and a father, Lyanna was not exactly well-versed in the intricacies of sex…for women, that is. She’d heard quite enough about a _man’s_ pleasure from Brandon and his friends over the years.

Rhaegar braced one hand at the bed by her shoulder, while his other grasped the soft skin of her hip. He looked up, his eyes dark jewels, and began to slide into her, achingly slow; he wasn’t even halfway inside her before his eyes fluttered closed and he exhaled shakily, breath as ragged as rocks.

It hurt, the way that he fit into her, an iron bar stretching wet silk, but it was no more painful than when Jaime struck her with the flat of his blade in their lessons.

When Rhaegar was fully inside of her, every bit of his cock sheathed by her slick heat, he collapsed his elbows, chest to chest with Lyanna, and fit his mouth to hers again, hot and wet and sweet as wine. She felt drunker than she’d ever been with alcohol.

“Does it hurt?” He whispered onto her tongue, before taking her bottom lip between his teeth gently.

She nodded dazedly, allowing him to plump her lip with those sharp, sharp teeth.

“I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely remorseful as he slid his mouth across her cheek and down to her throat, letting the tip of his tongue graze the softest part of her throat, right beneath her jaw.

And then, as if a flame had sparked, he murmured, with more than a hint of dark promise, “I’ll make it feel good.”

It started out slow, his movements calculated and smooth, a long stream of sliding skin, and hushed breathing. When he moved inside her with that slow, slow pace, it was as if he was catching flint against her skin, forging embers deep within her body. 

Every thrust of himself inside of her only fanned those embers, building up their heat, hotter and hotter until the embers grew to glowing coals, and glowing coals erupted into living flames. 

Her entire body thrummed with a steady buzz of heated ecstasy, provoked and enflamed any time Rhaegar put the flat of his tongue against her skin, any time he groaned curses beneath his breath, any time he caught her eyes and couldn't look away, as if they were both entranced by some ancient carnal spell. 

Lyanna's breath was coming ragged, like trying to suck in the damp air of a scalding bath, and her fingers dug into her husband's skin like a wolf with claws. 

Before she knew what he was doing, Rhaegar braced himself with one hand back on the bed and the other flat beneath her tailbone. She had a mind to ask him if something was wrong, but her head was too fuzzy she hadn't the strength. 

Then with that strong splayed hand, he canted her hips up an inch or so, and ground himself into her at a different angle, his hot slick skin sliding right up against the top of her sex. 

It took less than a second for her body to explode in startling pleasure, the force and feel of it so sudden and _earth-shattering_ , she didn't register as her nails scraped into the slopes of his collarbones, down the skin of his chest, and across the hard planes of his stomach. 

He thrusted into her quicker than before as she rode out her ecstasy around his cock, his hips jerking frantically - once twice three times - before he fell to his elbows and captured her mouth against his. 

She felt the exact moment he came, his seed hot inside her, filling her, his moans reverberating through skin and bone and vein and muscle, until she wasn't sure where his pleasure began and hers ended. 

When he finished inside her, his body still and sated, she felt as if she was in the clouds, her heart beating harder than a blacksmith's hammer on steel, her skin turned inside out. 

When Rhaegar had promised he'd make her feel good, she hadn't known he'd make her feel _that_ good, like her body was being melted limb by limb until she was nothing but a sensitive bundle of nerves firing off in sheer ecstasy. 

Rhaegar lifted his head from where it had been buried in her neck, his pupils blown out so that his eyes seemed black as the bay below their castle. His face was sculpted in desirous wonder, and his cheeks were pink with the most becoming flush. 

She wanted him to take her again and he wasn't even out of her yet. 

"When do you have to leave?" That was the first thing out of her mouth, the nagging thought that hadn't gone away since he'd first told her he was riding to Casterly Rock. 

Rhaegar swallowed and cast a look behind him, where the window was open and showcasing a pale orange sky, fresh with an awakening sun. 

"Now," he said regretfully, hanging his head. His silver strands tickled her skin, but his lips dragging over her collarbones was nothing short of wildfire. 

"Do you have to leave?" She murmured, sounding needier than she had expected, shocking herself. When had she morphed from resilient independent daughter of the North to a clinging dragon-cloaked wolf child? She didn't like it. _Ice and fire, fire and ice…_

Rhaegar supported himself on one elbow as he stroked the length of her jawbone with his finger. Her nails had left fierce red trails down his chest and abs, proof of their passion and the ecstasy he had given her. Some primal part of her liked that she had scarred him. 

"Yes," he said, "I'm late as it is. I was meant to leave before the sun came up."

Her heart sank deep into her chest. "Oh."

"I'll ride fast and hard each day," he promised. Rhaegar's hair was limp with sweat from their sex, but his eyes couldn't have been brighter, even as he gently pulled himself out of her and kissed the pulse point in her throat. 

He dressed himself quickly in his clothes as Lyanna wrapped herself in the velvet of her blanket, awash in the smell of him and her together. It brought bitter anger to her chest, even though he still stood before her. 

Just as he pulled on his boots, he looked up, face falling. He strode over and molded his body to hers; the relief of it was so palpable, it felt like a million birds had been tied to her heart and then cut free. 

"Do not fret," he said. "Everything is going to go as planned." 

_Ice and fire, fire and ice, the dragon must have three heads…_

She clenched her jaw, angry at his casual flippancy for the situation. "I suppose I'll see you in a couple of months?" 

She was set to leave for Dragonstone in three days, and wouldn’t come back to King’s Landing until Rhaegar and the Lannister soldiers had safely taken the throne and put Aerys in chains; then, she would come back to the Red Keep, and Aerys would take her place at Dragonstone, living the remainder of his life on the dragon island.

"You will." Rhaegar tipped her chin up with two fingers and placed a feather-soft kiss to her mouth that tasted of salt and heat. "All I want to do is come home to you. I'll ride faster than the wind, and before you know it, you'll be my queen."

The worship in his voice was harder to bear than the complete way he'd filled her body just mere minutes ago. _Ice and fire…_ Her heart was set to burst from the emotion swelling within, but she forced a brave face. 

"Make sure that when you come for _him_ , you're surrounded by your Kingsguards," she said sternly, "so you can actually _be_ king."

His smile was a thing of magnificence, and he kissed her one last time. "I promise I will."

_Fire and ice…_


	47. A Royal Lie

Lyanna shivered violently, the gloomy day blowing cold winds and boasting grey skies. If she looked up, she could almost trick herself into believing she was in Winterfell again, could pretend that the noise below the Red Keep was actually the sounds of Benjen playing Knights and Maidens, and not the cries of Flea Bottom.

Despite the chill of cold, Lyanna enjoyed the _smell_ of it; now that winter was actually coming, the city did not smell so much of fish and feces and hot, hot air. She left the window open and resumed folding the last bits of clothing left in her room.

Her room within the Maidenvault was almost a bare husk of its former self; it had been completely gutted, divested of her blankets and bedding, her clothing and shoes, her books and every last valuable possession she owned, until it was left hardly more than a bleak grey cell with sparse furnishings.

Her things had been packed into trunks and cases, and loaded onto _Silverscale_ , the ship Rhaegar had hired to transport her, Ser Jaime, and her ladies-in-waiting to Dragonstone.

Every day since Rhaegar had left – three, to be exact – with Sers Arthur, Oswell, Barristan, and Gerold flanking him as they rode down the goldroad, was utter torture. The long days burned slow, and not even Jaime could make them exciting.

 _Not_ that he tried. In the three days that Rhaegar had been gone from the Keep, Jaime had been more a skittish tomcat than a proud lion. Everywhere she went, and he subsequently followed, had Jaime casting wary looks around, searching for some invisible threat.

She had tried getting to the root of his problem, point blank asking _what_ exactly he was looking for, but Jaime had just brushed her off and cast another paranoid look over his shoulder.

She’d given up wondering after the first day. 

When she finally had her last cloak folded and packed into the trunk, she sighed tiredly and stood. Somewhere, a heavy door screamed as it was opened; _Ser Jaime_ , Lyanna thought, _or Lady Johanna, perhaps._

Footsteps were pounding within the Maidenvault, more than one pair if she judged correctly. And crying too, heavy cries that were more shrieking sobs than anything else. Lyanna’s heart tripped and she went to her open doorway, peering out.

Before her eyes could adjust to the darkness within the halls, a sobbing form rammed right into her knees, nearly toppling her over with the sheer force of it. Lyanna gripped onto the wall for balance just as another person came into view, short and pudgy and out of breath - Lanna, Prince Viserys' caretaker.

At Lyanna’s knees, Viserys clung to her for dear life, his sobs echoing disturbingly through the halls of the Maidenvault, like the sounds of a dying animal. She bent and untangled him from her legs, holding him out at arm’s length.

“What’s wrong?” She soothed, then cut a look to Lanna. “What happened?”

Viserys raised his head. Even in the grey light the gloomy day afforded them, Lyanna could still make out the angry red mark plastered across one of the little prince’s cheeks, fierce and terrible and in the distinct shape of a large hand.

She felt her heart sink. “Who did this? Was it _you_?” She demanded of Lanna, who seemed fit to soil her dress right then and there.

Lanna shook her head in fright. “No, Your Highness, no, it was…” She looked around nervously, much like the way Jaime had been the past few days.

Viserys shook off Lyanna’s hold on his shoulders and wrapped his arms around her neck and his little legs around her stomach. “Father,” he cried into her neck, “he hit me.” Lyanna’s blood went cold.

Lanna came and crouched beside the prince and princess, explaining in a small whisper, “Prince Viserys wanted to see Queen Rhaella for the midday meal, but the king was about to… _visit_ with her. The little prince tried to go see his mother anyway, but the king…”

“Hit him,” Lyanna finished softly, squeezing Viserys tighter to her chest. He was not sobbing as badly as he had been, but his tears still soaked through her shoulders and hair.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Lanna whispered, “when that happened, I was in shock. Prince Viserys ran away and it was all I could do to keep up with him, he’s so quick. I didn’t realize he was coming _here_ , to _you_ , until he burst through the Maidenvault.”

“It’s fine,” Lyanna assured the caretaker, standing slowly, then rocking Viserys like a baby. She wanted to lay him down on the bed so he could calm, but all the bedding had been stripped, either for washing or to take to Dragonstone.

Dragonstone…

This put a chink in their plans. She couldn’t leave Viserys, not now, not when his mother was being brutally abused by the king, not when he’d been dealt a blow so severe, his entire cheek looked aflame.

But, she was meant to leave _today_. For one wild instant, she fantasized of sneaking Viserys on the ship with her, sailing away before the king could find out. But she pushed that thought out.

She might’ve been able to whisk away the little prince, but that would mean leaving Rhaella behind with that monster of a brother-husband, and even _considering_ that made her heart hurt.

Jaime appeared as suddenly and quietly as a ghost, splendid in his white-enameled armor. For the first time in several days, his eyes and face were relaxed. But that all changed when he saw Viserys sobbing in her arms and Lanna cowering in fear of Jaime’s sight.

“Princess,” he said slowly, “the ship is loaded, and the captain says it is time to leave.”

Leave…she couldn’t leave, not yet. She couldn’t leave Viserys behind crying hysterically while his mother was raped in her own bed. What kind of careless bitch would she be if she left them behind? What kind of mother would that make her in the future?

Rhaegar had told her in no uncertain terms that Rhaella and Viserys could not come to Dragonstone with her. But… “Well, tell the captain that we are not leaving today,” she said without thinking.

Jaime’s green eyes widened. “What?”

Lyanna rocked Viserys, and Jaime’s eyes flicked down to the small boy. “Tell the captain I am delaying our departure. Just for one day, we can leave on the morrow.”

“No,” Jaime said desperately, scaring her, “you don’t understand, we have to leave today.”

“We don’t,” she shot back. “The ship can wait one day for the future queen and her guests.”

“Lyanna,” Jaime murmured, fear in his eyes. She didn’t understand. “you can’t-”

“I _can_ ,” she interrupted as Viserys erupted into a raw sob. “Go. Tell the captain now that I have ordered us to leave in the morning.” She leveled the Kingsguard with a cold stare that brooked no further argument.

Jaime clenched his jaw angrily, working it over as he stared her down. No matter if he was her friend or not, she would not let him change her mind. She could afford to stay with Viserys tonight, calm him down, and then tomorrow hand him off to Rhaella, granted she was well enough after…

“Now, Ser Jaime,” Lyanna ordered quietly.

Those cat-green eyes narrowed angrily before he turned, sweeping away from her. She couldn’t help the shiver that ghosted up her skin. She hadn’t seen him look that angry since she’d caught him with his sister.

“Lanna,” Lyanna turned, “I want you to go to the kitchens and tell the cooks to make roast swan tonight. It’s Viserys’ favorite. Then I’d like you to gather the books he’s learning from today, and bring them to Prince Rhaegar’s chambers.”

“Prince Rhaegar?” Lanna squeaked.

“Yes,” Lyanna sighed impatiently, “my husband has gone to Casterly Rock, and my own room is obviously unusable. Deposit Viserys’ books there, and fetch some paints and paper, if you could.”

Lanna seemed absurdly grateful to have some task other than watching Viserys cry, so she curtsied in respect and scurried off. 

Lyanna rocked Viserys for a few more minutes before heading out of the Maidenvault herself, ignoring the strange looks of the knights and lords and ladies within the castle. At the drawbridge leading to Maegor’s, Ser Lewyn stared at her coldly, those black eyes dead and crawling over her skin.

She marched straight for Rhaegar’s rooms, slipping inside and immediately depositing the little prince on the bed. The air was thick with her husband’s scent, and it served to calm her racing heart and tear a hole in her aching soul simultaneously.

She and Viserys spent the rest of the day in Rhaegar’s chambers. They painted and laughed, she read stories of dragons from Viserys’ books and he giggled around the room, playing at Balerion the Dread. 

That night they feasted together, just the two of them, on roast swan and apple cakes, and afterward, Viserys fell asleep atop Rhaegar’s bed as Lyanna recited the same bedtime stories Old Nan had told her years ago.

When she was sure the little prince was deep in sleep, she came to sit near him. His cheek was no longer red, but the handprint had turned to an ugly purple color; in a sick twist of black humor, she had noticed that the color brought out the lilac in his eyes.

Lyanna put one hand on her stomach as she studied Viserys’ hurt face. She had told Jaime they would leave on the morrow, but she couldn't imagine leaving Viserys vulnerable to more of Aerys' dark moods. Her fingers clutched at the skin of her belly. She imagined what it would be like to feel her baby kick beneath her belly, to feel that touch.

She dropped her head to stare at her splayed hand, at her softening stomach. _Your father will never hurt you_ , she thought at her baby, _he will love you and cherish you, and protect you from all evils in this world._

* * *

The next morning, Jaime Lannister woke in his room within the White Sword Tower. The day seemed just as bleak as the one before, skies grey and gloomy. It seemed to match his mood.

He could have strangled Lyanna for her stupidity, ordering their departure to be delayed. Of course she didn’t know, didn’t realize, the danger she was putting Jaime in by doing so, but still, he was angry.

Every day that he was in the Red Keep without Prince Rhaegar there was another day closer to the possibility of him being thrown in the black cells, Rhaegar’s plans be damned. 

Before he’d left, the prince had explained that Mad Aerys had wanted Jaime confined in those dark dungeons for the crime of being a Lannister, but Rhaegar had lied and convinced his father to imprison Jaime on Dragonstone instead.

The three days that Rhaegar was gone, and Jaime and Lyanna were alone in the Keep, were the most stressful days of Jaime’s life. He looked for the king at every corner, in every room, hoping beyond hope that he could avoid Aerys completely before they left for Dragonstone.

Lyanna had only made his mission that much harder by insisting they stay another day. Last night she had slept with the little prince in her husband’s chambers within Maegor’s Holdfast, keeping him occupied and smiling as his own queen mother was raped by his father.

Jaime both admired Lyanna’s compassionate strength, and cursed her for it.

As he dressed in his whites and made his way from the eerily quiet tower where all the Kingsguards slept – except for the absent Arthur, Oswell, Barristan, and Lord Commander Gerold – Jaime calmed himself. Lyanna had asked for only one day in delay; they were leaving today and Jaime would be free from the threat of the black cells.

He had convinced himself he was safe, marching blindly to Rhaegar’s chambers to retrieve the princess, when it all came crashing down.

“Ser Jaime,” came the old king’s croaking voice as he was exiting the Holdfast. “What are you doing here?” Varys the Spider was at Aerys' side.

The memory of Rhaegar asking Jaime to tell no one of his plans suddenly came to mind. _'Tell no one of what we have said here today. Varys' spies are everywhere, and nowhere is clean,'_ the prince had said. Jaime kept his eyes off the Spider.

Fighting to keep the grimace off his face at the sight of the wizened, scabbed king, Jaime said, “I came to get Princess Lyanna, for our departure to Dragonstone.”

Aerys seemed to be under the impression that Jaime was unaware of his “imprisonment” on the dragon island; Rhaegar had spun his tale in a way that had the king thinking Jaime would sail a free man to Dragonstone and be ambushed with chains upon arrival.

“And why are you and the princess still here?” The king demanded. Varys arched a brow mockingly.

Jaime searched for an excuse. He couldn’t very well tell the mad man that after he had struck his own son, Viserys had run crying to Lyanna, and she couldn’t bear to leave the boy alone while his father was torturing his mother, so she’d delayed their departure.

Fortunately, and most _unfortunately_ , Lyanna and Viserys appeared right then, hand in hand, smiling. Well, at least until they saw the king.

“Girl,” Aerys barked, completely oblivious to the purple handprint across Viserys’ cheek. “Why are you still here?” He demanded of her. “You were to leave yesterday.”

The king was angry, that much was certain, and it proved to strike fear right into Lyanna’s heart. She froze, her eyes widening. Jaime could see the skin over her heart jump with every beat.

“Well?” Aerys sneered. “What business do you have defying your husband’s orders?”

Lyanna’s lips parted, and Jaime knew that whatever was about to come out of her mouth wasn’t going to be smart. “Rhaegar changed his mind.”

Jaime’s heart sunk to his toes. _No, no, oh no._

“Changed his mind?” Aerys repeated, eyes narrowing.

Lyanna swallowed. “Yes,” she agreed slowly, giving herself time to weave a lie. “The prince decided I was much safer here with you and the queen, at the Keep in Maegor’s Holdfast.”

Oh, she’d phrased it just flattering enough that the king might let the blatant lie slide. She was better than Jaime thought, an on-the-spot liar just like Cersei, all to keep little Viserys from his father's harm.

“Rhaegar said that there was no place safer than in the royal holdfast,” she explained, straightening her spine to give credence to her lie. “'The king’s place is the safest place in the realm,' he told me.”

 _No_ , he screamed in his mind. _You’re ruining everything!_ He couldn’t call her out on the lie though; that could mean _her_ death if the Mad King was angry enough, and he wouldn’t have her head lopped off on his watch. She was his friend, she was his princess, she was his _responsibility_.

Aerys huffed, a creepy smile spreading slowly across his face. “My son can be stupid on many things,” he granted, “but he is right on this. I told him you should stay in King’s Landing, and it seems he finally took my advice.”

Lyanna nodded quickly. “Yes.”

He studied her quickly, oblivious to his other son’s presence. “Very well, I can have rooms made up for you in the Holdfast.”

“No,” Lyanna blurted out quickly, “I can stay in Rhaegar’s rooms for now, until Lord Tywin can be brought to justice.” Her eyes strayed to Jaime quickly, and he read the apology there even as dread sank his soul.

“Good,” Aerys said, “good. Well, run along then, continue with your day.” He turned back to Jaime. Lyanna did not budge.

“Ser Jaime,” Aerys dragged out his name slowly, menacingly. Jaime had never been truly afraid of the king before, had only thought of him as a weak, mad ruler that had outlived his days, as well as his sanity. But now, with his fate in the king’s hands…

“Since I am out of most of my Kingsguard,” Aerys smiled, “I am in dire need of a personal shield. Ser Lewyn stands post at the drawbridge, and Jonothor stands by my door at night, but I’ve no one during the days. You,” he said, “will do.”

Jaime could not refuse a king’s orders, no matter if that king was soon to be overthrown. He wasn’t being locked in the black cells like he assumed he would be, but somehow this task felt just as dark. Jaime rued the day that white cloak was placed on his shoulders.

“It would be an honor, Your Grace," he lied.

“An honor,” Aerys chuckled, testing the word before his dark eyes flashed up. “Yes, an honor.”


	48. The Hands

The twilight that descended over King's Landing was as dark and lovely as Rhaegar's eyes, a disturbing cobalt blue mixed with hues of amethyst. Just looking at the sky made Lyanna's heart ache. Rhaegar had been gone for two entire months, and every day that passed her belly grew without him there.

Whereas her stomach had been flat as a board the night they lay together in her bed, now it was curved with the life that grew beneath her skin, a bump that was beginning to show through the tunics and dresses she wore.

Viserys had taken to escorting her around the castle each morning, stopping any and every person that passed them by and forcing them to lay a hand over Lyanna's stomach and wish her well. It was all incredibly endearing, but Lyanna couldn't help but wonder if she had done herself and Rhaegar a huge disservice by purposely staying in King's Landing.

Of course with her presence, Viserys was no longer lonely, and far less privy to Aerys' abuse. When the king went to "visit" with the queen, Lyanna was able to keep Viserys away, and keep him occupied.

But sometimes when she lay in Rhaegar's bed at night, alone and her mind drifting, she would fantasize about what it would have been like to have sailed to Dragonstone with Jaime and her ladies, how each day would have dawned grey on the dragon island, how the ocean would have sang to her from below.

In her darkest moments, she contemplated sneaking out to Flea Bottom through her secret tunnels, and buying passage to Dragonstone alone. But that was all just a child's fancy peeking through her thoughts, and despite how often she dreamed of doing it, she never did.

She had made her bed by lying and staying in King's Landing, and now she had to lay in it.

Being stuck in the Red Keep might not have been so bad if Jaime were still guarding her during the days, but even he was taken from her. He guarded the king from sunup to sundown, witnessing gods knew what when Aerys decided to lock himself in the throne room.

Sometimes at the end of his shifts, Jaime would come by Rhaegar's room to say hello or take her to their secret courtyard and let her whack at him with her practice sword, but even those times were starting to come less often. 

During the days, when Viserys was learning and Rhaella was about her duties, Lyanna would take her ladies and an entourage of guards and visit Beth and her baby at the orphanage, handing out little cakes and presents to the children. 

And when she left, riding back to the Keep, the townspeople would line up to throw flowers at her, and scream her name with joy. She gave them her smiles and her waves, but gallivanting around Flea Bottom only made her heart ache for the night she and Rhaegar had explored. It made her incredibly lonely.

"Your Highness?"

Lyanna jumped in her chair, swiveling to see Maester Pycelle standing hunched over by Rhaegar's open door. "Grand Maester," she said breathlessly, "I didn't hear you come in."

"I knocked," he replied uncertainly, eyeing her. In his hand was an uncoiled raven's message, its seal broken. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but a letter came to the rookery. I did not know it was meant for you until..."

For a moment, her heart stilled. She'd been hoping for a letter from Rhaegar. In the two months he had been gone, she'd heard not a word. Of course, she hadn't expected to receive anything, given he still thought her to be at Dragonstone, but it didn't stop her from wishing for something.

"Rhaegar," she whispered hopefully, reaching for the letter.

Pycelle frowned. "No, not Prince Rhaegar."

Her hopes fell to her feet. Of course it wasn't Rhaegar - he was under the impression she was where she was supposed to be as he marched Lannister soldiers to the capital. She took the letter anyway, turning it over to study the seal across its back. 

The wax was lavender in color and pressed into it was a sigil depicting a falling star slashed with a sword - the sigil of House Dayne. Her eyes widened as she hurriedly drank in the words of the letter, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest. 

Her brother Brandon's scrawl was just as messy as she remembered, slanting diagonally as he wrote about living at Starfall with Ashara, how they had married in the Southron fashion, and she had delivered their babe Arra, a beautiful dark-haired girl with startling purple eyes and pale, pale skin. 

Lyanna hadn't realized she was crying until her tears stained the paper, blurring the ink into small explosions of black monsters. She wiped her cheeks, laughing through her cries.

"Grand Maester," she said softly, "will you please write back to Starfall for me?" She didn't trust her shaking hand to write visibly.

The old maester nodded, coming to sit at Rhaegar's desk where parchment and ink lay out always. 

"Address it to Brandon Stark. Tell him I miss him," she started out, pacing the length of the room, "tell him I am pregnant, tell him..." She paused, Brandon's image coming to mind, "I will come see him soon and present him with his niece or nephew." Only five or so more months till she delivered, and she could see her wild wolf again.

Pycelle diligently wrote out everything she had told him to, then read it back to her before sealing it with Rhaegar's wax and seal.

"I want that sent out tonight," she ordered.

Pycelle bowed as much as his old body let him. "Of course, Your Highness."

Only after he had left and she was alone once more did her fantasies of escaping King's Landing morph into fleeing to a castle by the Dornish sea, where a lone wolf howled at the stars.

* * *

Darkness had finally settled over the castle, the sun tucked away behind the black horizon. Jaime's legs were numb from standing in one spot all day, at the base of Aerys' monstrous barbed throne from the moment the sun had risen to now. He desperately wanted to sleep, to curl in on himself within the White Sword Tower, and dream of a fair face and caressing hands.

"Make it quick," Aerys growled at Qarlton Chelsted, the Hand that had replaced Jon Connington. Aerys seemed as irritable as Jaime felt, squirming in his hard throne like a restless child.

Lord Qarlton approached the Iron Throne, his entire body sagging with fatigue. Purple bags hung beneath his eyes, and his skin was even more pale than usual. His hands were visibly shaking, but it didn't stop the determination in his gaze.

"Your Grace," Qarlton began quietly, "I wonder if we might speak alone."

Jaime narrowed his eyes. Besides for himself, Varys, Wisdom Rossart the pyromancer, and the king, Lord Qarlton was the only other person in the cavernous hall.

"Ser Jaime is my Kingsguard," Aerys explained, "a sword from which a king has no secrets. And Rossart knows how to keep words to himself."

Qarlton frowned, quickly glancing at Jaime before redirecting his attention to the king. "As you say. Your Grace, I feel I must advise you against the upcoming executions of Lord Tywin Lannister and his bannermen."

The room was heavy with pregnant silence. It was so quiet it hurt Jaime's ears. Not even the flames flickering in the huge iron baskets lining the throne room made a sound, silent flames waving red, orange, and yellow.

"What did you say?" Aerys whispered dangerously, gripping the sharp tip of one of the swords melted around his seat.

"Lord Tywin is powerful," Qarlton was quick to explain. "I fear if you execute him, there could be retribution from the Westerlands. There could be a war."

Varys spoke up. "My birds tell me Prince Rhaegar is riding back from Casterly Rock, a few days from the capital now, with Tywin Lannister and his co-conspirators shackled and guarded by the Kingsguards he took."

"I understand that," Qarlton replied, glancing uncertainly around the room, "but killing a Lannister is not a good idea. Lord Tywin has many allies throughout Westeros, even King's Landing. If he were to be executed, they might stand and revolt. I beg you, do not kill Lord Tywin. Leniency, however..."

Aerys' eyes flashed. "You would have me pardon a traitor? You would have me grant mercy to those who plot treason?!"

"Pardon, no," Qarlton squeaked, "mercy, yes. You could exile those involved in the plot."

Bile rose in Jaime's throat when Aerys spoke again. "Dragons do not give mercy," he screamed, his voice echoing wildly. "They destroy." He sneered down at his Hand. "And they burn. Rossart!"

Wisdom Rossart ghosted forward, disturbingly fluid in his grace. The rags he wore were a deep jade velvet, but almost seemed to rot off his body. "Your Grace, what is your command?"

"Wisdom Rossart, tell my Hand what you and your pyromancers did for me today," Aerys said, settling back into his seat and staring down at Qarlton with a chilling smirk.

Rossart faced Qarlton and explained, "By the king's command, we placed some fifty caches of wildfire around the city, as well as beneath the Red Keep itself."

Jaime's heart rose to his throat, and it was all he could to stay upright and wipe his face clean of emotion.

"Should any of Lord Tywin's friends rise against the crown and rebel once the Lion is executed," Rossart went on, "the entire city can be turned to ash within hours."

Jaime's armor clinked where his hand shook against his sword's pommel, so he lowered his hand and clenched his jaw. He tried to focus on the fact that Varys had confirmed Rhaegar and his father were not far away. He only had to hold on for a few more days.

"Yo- you what?" Qarlton squeaked.

Aerys grinned. "That's right. If any rebels want to take my crown, so be it. But let them rule over ash and charred bones."

Qarlton's eyes seemed to pop out of his head. "You're mad," he whispered, signing his death warrant, "mad..."

The king's face transformed from smug and proud to evil dragon. "I'm not mad!" He screamed shrilly. "Rossart, get the stake and a pot of wildfire. I think my Hand has outlived his office."

Qarlton stumbled back a few steps. "Your Grace, I did not mean to offend."

"Ser Jaime!" Aerys shrieked. "Grab Lord Chelsted!"

Jaime felt vomit rise in his throat as he marched forward and held onto Qarlton Chelsted, who kicked and fought but was no match in strength for the Young Lion. As the stake was brought out and Lord Qarlton was tied to it, Jaime went away in his head.

He let his thoughts drift to nicer things as the wildfire was dispersed and the stake was lit. He thought of Cersei's beautiful golden hair and how it smelled when it was draped across his face; he thought of his brief happiness the day he'd been granted the white cloak; he thought of being knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning; he thought of Lyanna and the way the moon cast a silver crown over her head when he taught her how to use a sword in their secret courtyard.

He thought of Tyrion, his little brother, and the way the boy had always wanted a dragon of his own. Qarlton's flesh was bubbling as the fire overcame him, chunks of it sloughing off completely as his screams filled the throne room like some horrible song. Aerys watched in utter fascination, his smile stretching from ear to ear.

_See, Tyrion, that's what you get when you wish for dragons._

It could have lasted an hour, it could have lasted a year. All Jaime knew was one moment Lord Qarlton was alive and whole, and the next...he wasn't.

Huge bits of blackened bone scattered the floor where they fell from the stake, but most of the late lord Hand was in the pile of ash and dust settled across the marble.

"It seems I will have to appoint a new Hand," Aerys said casually, inhaling the scent of Qarlton's skin, screams, and bones floating in the air. "Rossart, from here on out, you will be my Hand, my closest advisor."

Rossart bowed deeply, smiling. "It would be my greatest honor, Your Grace."

"Ser Jaime," Aerys said, climbing down from his throne, "tell the servants to clean this mess up. And then escort me to the queen's rooms."

Emotionless, Jaime strode to the throne room doors and found a group of servants. He instructed them to clean Lord Qarlton's body from the floors without question, and then he went back to the king's side, more tired than he'd ever been in his life.

He wanted to sleep and dream and never wake again.

Instead he was forced to follow Aerys as he made his way to Maegor's Holdfast. As they passed by Rhaegar's closed door, Jaime couldn't help but feel relief. At least the king would not bother the princess; the longer Rhaegar was gone, the more Aerys took to looking at Lyanna, deeply and unfazed by whomever could witness.

At the queen's door, Aerys paused and turned to Jaime. "You will stand here until I am done, and then Ser Jonothor will relieve you."

Jaime could only nod, and thank the gods Lyanna was safe. The king slipped inside and closed the door behind him, but it only took mere minutes for Rhaella to begin crying and shouting in distress, her sobs burying themselves deep in Jaime's heart like tiny daggers. 

His sword hand twitched violently.

As the queen wept, begging her brother to stop, Jaime went away inside his head once more, thinking of a day when a different king would sit the throne and another queen would not be tortured behind closed doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know interest in the Rhaegar/Lyanna tag has drastically declined in the past few weeks, so I want to thank all of you who are still reading and commenting on my story. I appreciate every one of you!


	49. Fire and Blood

The afternoon was heavy with the metallic scent of an inevitable rainstorm, the clouds joining in thick clumps overhead. _It will storm tonight_ , Lyanna knew, as she pushed away her bowl of soup.

Since Rhaegar had left, her appetite had dwindled. She was too worried about any and every aspect that could go wrong with his plan. Especially in the past few days. Just looking at food made her stomach curl and cramp. She grimaced, staring back out at the sky.

"I think I would like to be Prince Aemon the Dragonknight," Viserys declared from the floor, fiddling with a small wooden toy sword.

Lyanna smiled a small smile. "You could be Prince Viserys the Dragonknight."

Viserys glanced up, grinning. "I could, and I could guard Rhaegar, and your baby when it comes."

Lyanna ghosted a hand over her swelling stomach. "Yes," she agreed, "you could."

"Your Highness," a gruff voice said from the door. 

Lyanna glanced over, a chill crawling over her skin. The voice belonged to Ser Lewyn, the stony-faced Dornish Kingsguard, whose eyes were so black they seemed depthless. Like his soul.

"Ser," she returned hesitantly, wary of his presence.

"The king," Lewyn said, "has summoned Court. Your attendance is requested."

"Oh no," Lyanna rejected immediately, "tell His Grace that I am sorry, but I cannot. I have to stay with the prince."

Queen Rhaella was in poor condition that day, bedridden by the king's abuse. Lyanna had gone to see her and had only caught a glimpse of her chewed-up, clawed skin before Ser Jonothor had closed the door in her face.

Finally, Ser Lewyn's face dropped into a cold sneer. “You will either go by force or of your own volition. Either way,” he said, “you’re going.”

She clenched her jaw, ice trickling through her veins. Why was her presence at Court so important? "And the prince?"

"Will go to Maegor's with the queen," Lewyn finished for her.

Lyanna took a deep breath, and forced a smile for Viserys; better he not think anything was wrong, lest he become upset. "Come on, Vis, it's time to see your mother."

Viserys jumped up, preoccupied with his toy sword. Lanna, his caretaker, waited by the door, looking like she had seen some ghost. "Come along, Your Highness," she whispered at the boy before ushering him away and deeper into Maegor's Holdfast.

Ser Lewyn waited like a dark shadow for Lyanna to smoothe out her skirts. They walked in terrible, harsh silence to the throne room, his boots and shifting armor grating on her anxiety. Her stomach roiled painfully as they came closer to Aerys and Court.

The doors to the throne room were wide open when they approached, and Lyanna could see that the whole of Court was in attendance - lords and ladies and knights and squires and everyone in between.

At the front of the crowd, nearest to the throne, Lyanna saw her ladies-in-waiting. Johanna sent her a small, slightly confused smile. Lyanna could not return it, could not tear her eyes away from the Mad King who sat atop his barbed throne.

"Princess Lyanna," he cackled, "so good of you to join us. Sit, sit."

Ser Lewyn ushered Lyanna to a velvet-cushioned seat situated at the base of Aerys' throne. She sat gingerly, threading her hands together to cease their shaking.

"Ser Jonothor," the king called out. 

Lyanna looked over in surprise. She had assumed Ser Jonothor was watching the queen, but no...here he stood, in cold, pale silence, drifting forward at his king's request.

Lyanna looked around wildly. _Where is Jaime_?

"Bring in the accused please," Aerys finished.

Ser Jonothor left and came back with two gaolers, and five prisoners: a man and woman that clung to one another despite their chains, an elderly crone, a middle-aged man with weariness etched into his face, and a small boy whose eyes were as wide as eggs as he looked about the room.

Lyanna frowned. Where was Jaime?

Aerys seemed to have the same question in mind. "Ser Jonothor, where is our young Lannister?"

"Meeting with the armorer, Your Grace. His Kingsguard armor was dented and needs fixing. Should be here soon."

Aerys huffed, but seemed to accept it. "Fine, fine. Escort the first prisoner out for questioning."

Lyanna zoned out. For the next hour, four of the five prisoners were interrogated and dealt their punishments, or promises of a future punishment. She could only sit on that uncomfortable cushioned chair, and let her mind drift to thoughts of her husband. Was he far away, still in Casterly Rock, or was he close - days, minutes, or hours from the capital? He'd been gone two months, surely he was almost home.

She could only fantasize about him being home, thinking about how marvelous he would look on that scary throne. Rhaegar was born to be a king, and what a wonderful one he would make.

"Last prisoner!" One of the gaolers called out as he shoved the small, dirty boy forward.

The boy meekly walked to the center of the floor, staring up at the king with those wide, wide eyes. 

"And this one's crime?" Aerys asked.

"Stealing," a Gold Cloak replied with a voice like thunder. "Little orphan boy stole food and tried to run away from me. I caught him though."

"I didn't steal!" The boy insisted, tears forming in his large eyes.

Lyanna studied the orphan boy, wondering with terror in her heart if he was one of those from Beth's orphanage. Aerys considered him also, staring down in terrifying silence, before wincing when one of the blades from his throne cut his palm.

"Death," Aerys decided.

Lyanna didn't register any thought before shooting up from her chair. "No!"

All the noise was sucked from the room. Aerys tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "No?"

Lyanna swallowed, summoning courage. Where was Jaime? "I mean, Your Grace, he is accused for stealing. Isn't it customary to take a hand or fingers?" She felt sick to her stomach suggesting it, but better a hand than a life.

"No," Aerys growled, "stealing will not be tolerated in my kingdoms. Death, it is."

"What about a trial by combat?" She insisted desperately. "The boy says he did not steal. Does he not have the right of judgement by the gods?"

Aerys' mouth puckered in anger, decidedly unhappy with her suggestion. She knew she had him. If the boy could get his trial, then surely some gallant knight would fight for him. 

And if not...

Where was Jaime?

"Very well," Aerys granted with clenched teeth. "A trial by combat for the little thief." He looked out to the sea of people in his throne room. "Who will be his champion? Who will represent this boy before the gods?"

There was not a peep, not a sound. No one seemed to even move as the king stared out at them, no knight went for his sword, not even a squire with a thirst for glory.

"No one?" Aerys demanded of the silent room. "If no one else will come forward..." He waited a full minute's worth of silence before flicking his eyes down to Lyanna. "You insisted on a trial by combat, Princess, therefore _you_ will be his champion."

The room was awash with gasps, but Lyanna could only stare at the king in shock. No, no, no, no...

"You can't do this!" She shouted. _I can't do this!_

Aerys' face morphed into a mask of rage. "What? You dare to tell me, _the king_ , what I can and cannot do?!"

Lyanna gulped. "A champion must give his consent before fighting. I do not." She clenched her fingers into her stomach.

"That's too bad," Aerys returned. "You _proposed_ the trial, you will _fight_ in the trial."

She knew she would get nowhere by fighting more. And the two Kingsguards left behind were of no help to her. If Ser Arthur was here, maybe, or Jaime...

Lyanna closed her eyes. She had ridden in the greatest tourney that was ever held and won against three knights. She had been taught how to wield a sword by Ser Jaime Lannister himself for months. She had the old gods on her side. She might be able to pull this off.

Where was Jaime?

Aerys said, "Ser Jonothor, please fetch a sword for the princess. Rossart..." The king didn't seem to have to finish his sentence for the pyromancer to know what he meant; Rossart inclined his head and disappeared through a side door.

"Lewyn," the king called, "I think the princess is overdressed. She cannot fight in such a heavy gown. Relieve her of it."

Lyanna sucked in a breath, making to run away, but Lewyn was quick. His hand around her arm was as strong as a shackle, and he dragged her to the center of the floor where the orphan boy quivered in fear.

Lewyn unsheathed his blade and with a quick cut down the back laces, her gown fell off. She shivered. All she was left in was a small black shift dress, with her smallclothes underneath. She felt naked and ashamed, though still clad in her little shift, even as most of the onlookers turned their heads in what little respect she could be given.

"Who am I fighting then?" Lyanna demanded angrily, glaring up at the king in defiance. "Who is your champion?"

Then, Aerys smiled. "Not a _who_ , but a _what_."

Confused, Lyanna frowned, wondering if the king had truly lost his wits this time.

"Fire is the champion of House Targaryen," Aerys clarified with a most chilling smirk.

Lyanna went cold all over. Fire? How was she meant to fight fire? The babe inside her may have craved heat, may have the dragonblood within its veins, but Lyanna was a wolf, a daughter of winter in the land of dragons. She couldn't fight fire.

A side door opened, and Rossart came out with several servants, pushing a huge wheeled stake inside. _No, no, no_.

"Tie the boy up," Aerys instructed.

Lyanna's and the little boy's eyes met for a single instant of terror before he was whisked away, struggling wildly against four men as he was lifted up and his hands were tied behind his back around the stake.

"No," Lyanna whispered, her head swimming. How could all of this have gone so wrong? "No..."

"Jonothor, if you could, hold the princess down. Ser Lewyn, cut her neck."

All of the air in Lyanna's lungs seemed to disappear. Cut her neck? Did he mean to kill her now, before she could even attempt to save the boy? She made to turn, but Jonothor had grasped her elbow. When had he come back? He held her in an iron-clad grip, forcing her to lay on the floor as Ser Lewyn approached, a small dagger in his hand.

She was struggling like a fish out of water, bucking and kicking her legs, attempting to bite any skin she could get a hold of.

"Be still!" Aerys roared. "Or I will have that babe of yours cut from your stomach before your combat."

Lyanna stilled immediately. She knew he would do it, and she could only imagine the excruciating pain of a knife digging into her belly, cutting cutting cutting. Her stomach cramped just at the thought of it.

"Very light cuts, _shallow_ ," Aerys instructed Ser Lewyn when Lyanna had calmed, coming down from his throne to stand before her. "I don't want to kill her." But the malice glittering in his dark eyes said otherwise.

She stayed frozen as Ser Lewyn worked over her, slicing his little blade over her neck in thin cuts. When he was done, she immediately touched her fingers to her neck; there was _some_ blood, not much, as if she had a dozen paper cuts on her throat rather than knife-made slices.

She didn't understand the point of them.

And then she got her answer.

Another great contraption was being pushed out of the same side door, its wooden beam shaped like a hook or a crooked finger, and at the end of the great wooden hook dangled several feet of rope and a noose.

Lyanna went ice cold from her hair to her toes at the sight of it.

Aerys only had to jerk his head for Ser Lewyn to grab Lyanna by the arms, hauling her to where the noose waited for her. She kicked and struggled against him, her screams echoing terribly through the room, but Lewyn managed to get her there all the same.

Aerys ghosted forward as the noose was tightened around her neck, his pale smile so full of love and hate.

"A leash for a wolf," he murmured in wonder. "So beautiful..."

And then, without warning, he shoved a hand between her legs, molesting her outside her smallclothes, but still burning her with his touch nonetheless. Tears blurred her vision immediately and she bucked away from him, but her trap ensured limited escape.

 _No!_ She screamed inside her head. _Only Rhaegar is supposed to touch me..._

"Fight me all you want, little one, I always win. And once you've had that baby of yours, you can have my dragon next," he whispered against her cheek. "You do so remind me of Joanna."

A hideous shudder wracked her body, and she thought of Rhaegar - beautiful, gallant, noble Rhaegar, her lovely dragon. Oh, how she wanted him in that moment; she didn't think she'd ever wanted anything so badly before.

But Rhaegar was not there. He was off marching with a Lannister army so that he could overthrow his father. What a hideously ironic situation this was. 

She should have gone to Dragonstone, should have somehow stolen both Viserys and Rhaella. She shouldn't have stayed. But nothing could be changed now...

Where was Jaime?

Aerys walked back to his throne, his footsteps echoing. If she hadn't known better, she would have assumed they were alone in the hall; but no, there were close to a hundred spectators watching in horror.

"Give the princess her sword," Aerys threw over his shoulder, sitting at the bottom of the steps leading to his iron seat.

Ser Jonothor approached, a sword in hand, but rather than hand it to her, he placed it on the floor, _just_ out of her reach several feet away.

"Let the trial begin!" Aerys shouted.

Rossart the pyromancer happily threw a pot of green liquid over the base of the stake, and then lit the bottom where the orphan boy was tied up on fire. The flames immediately licked out, red and orange and yellow and _jade_ , inching closer to the boy's feet.

Lyanna jerked into motion, going for her sword, but it was too far away, just outside her reach, and she managed to choke herself in the process. She stuck a leg out, hoping to pull the steel closer to her with her toes, but she had no luck. Perhaps she could get the noose loose somehow...

The rope noose was tight and itchy around her throat, and each time she struggled against it, it dug itself into her cuts painfully, opening the shallow slices up wider, so that they festered. She suddenly realized the purpose of Ser Lewyn's handiwork.

The little cuts on her neck may not have been meant to kill her, but with that rough rope noose around her throat, they would be infected and scrubbed raw by the end of this process, whether in life or death.

The fire was beginning to grow, engulfing the bottom of the stake entirely, and beginning to char the little boy's feet with green tongues of flame. "Please, Princess," the boy called out to her desperately, " _help me_!" He shrieked like a dying animal as the skin of his foot seemed to bubble and melt.

She might have expected someone to step forward, to demand that this farce be ended. But she knew as well as any of them, that if someone did, they would die right alongside her and the boy.

Thick smoke was beginning to cloud the room, and choking Lyanna's senses, but she bucked and pulled and reached and coughed and tried, tried, _tried_.

The more she struggled, the tighter the rope seemed to constrict around her throat. Black spots danced before her eyes and she had to stop several times to regain a fraction of breath.

 _If I could only get that sword, I'd be free_. And she'd cut down any man who tried to stop her from saving the little boy. Jaime had taught her how to properly wield a blade, the beautiful young lion. She would kill Lewyn, and Jonothor afterward.

Then, movement caught her eye. Behind the throne, coming through the king's door, was Jaime, bright like the dawning sun in golden Lannister armor. His golden curls were free and loose and Lyanna imagined she could see the green of his eyes from even where she stood.

Jaime's eyes swept around the room in confusion before settling on her. Then they widened in shock and sickness.

Lyanna's vision went half black, and she slipped twice, choking herself harder as she was reaching for the gleaming sword. The harder she struggled, the tighter the noose became. It was becoming more and more difficult to draw breath, her throat tight from the pressure of the noose against it.

 _Jaime_ , she wanted to call out, but her voice was stolen. In that moment of limbo between consciousness and unconsciousness, Lyanna wished more than anything in the entire world that Rhaegar was there.

Her Dragon Prince, with his tumble of silver-gold hair and those deep purple eyes, and those strong hands that could cut down his father. _Please, Rhaegar, please_.

She dug her fingers around the noose to alleviate the pressure against her neck, but the orphan boy was still screaming hideously, screaming at her to save him, and she couldn't just let him _burn_.

She dug her feet into the floor, trying for the sword once more, but there was so much pressure in her brain, so much smoke around her that she wasn't sure if she would ever breathe again. Somewhere she heard people screaming, but it sounded far away, like in a dream...or was that because her brain was so cloudy?

She could feel herself falling forward, her eyes watering as the noose strangled the life out of her; her throat was closed, her brain dizzy, dizzy... _I'm so dizzy_.

Her thoughts were tendrils of smoke she could not grab ahold of, and her head felt like it was a grape being squeezed between a giant's fingers. She couldn't stand straight, think straight, or even _breathe_. She just wanted to sleep, and see Rhaegar, and never come back to this hellish nightmare again, but there was so much smoke and too much pressure in her head.

She opened her mouth to gasp in air, but her noose held her hostage like a feral dog. The sounds around her seemed to cease, disappearing, and her vision turned completely black. Her hands went slack.

Lyanna closed her eyes and dropped...and then there was nothing.


	50. Jade Ashes

The first thing Jaime smelled was smoke. 

But not the usual scent of it, thick and burning. No. He knew the smell of this at once, had been forced to inhale it a thousand and one times as Aerys burned lords and peasants alike. 

This smell was wildfire. It was sharp and smelled like poison. Jaime took a deep breath and shifted in his armor; it glinted gold in the light that the sconced torch allowed. Lannister gold armor for the night that the Mad King would lose his throne. 

It was almost poetic. 

The king's door that led inside the throne room was seeping smoke like a dragon flaring its nostrils, fanning Jaime's face with little smoky tendrils of pyromancer's piss. He scowled. 

He'd hoped that Court would have been over by the time he was finished "dealing with the armorer." Though that had been the lie he'd fed Ser Jonothor, in truth Jaime had snuck away to read the letter Grand Maester Pycelle received only hours ago. 

Pycelle was a Lannister loyalist to the bones, and had been the first and only person Tywin Lannister trusted with his and Prince Rhaegar's whereabouts. Just as Jaime had been ready to attend the king at Court, Pycelle had drifted by, slipping a small fold of parchment into the opening of Jaime's scabbard. 

Knowing the letter was important, and likely crucial to his own well-being, Jaime had made an excuse about his armor to Jonothor and slunk away to his and Lyanna's secret courtyard. There, he read. 

Lord Tywin wrote to the Grand Maester that he, Prince Rhaegar, his Kingsguards, and a small host of Lannister soldiers were waiting outside the city limits. He commanded Pycelle to ensure the city gates were kept open _no matter what_ , for they planned to storm the castle tonight. 

Jaime had had adrenaline racing through his system ever since. Eventually he bedecked himself in the armor his father had bought him long ago, before he'd whored himself out for a white cloak, and strode to the throne room with purpose. He could serve Mad Aerys for one more evening. 

Jaime now pushed through the king's door, slipping through quietly, even though his presence was overcome by the commotion inside. He was immediately bombarded with the rich medicinal scent of the wildfire's smoke, plumes of it wafting in his mouth and eyes. 

He cast his eyes around the room in confusion - there was the entirety of Court, lords and ladies and knights and the like, there was Ser Jonothor and Ser Lewyn, a handful of Gold Cloaks, gaolers, and...two great contraptions that he had to squint to make sense of. 

One was a classic stake not unlike the one used to burn the former Hand, Lord Qarlton; its wooden platform was aflame with jade, and its beam was heavy with the body of a small child who was screaming for his life. Green and orange flames licked at his bare feet hungrily as he shrieked and shrieked. 

Several feet away, on view for everyone to see, was a large wooden device shaped like a hooked finger; at the point of the hook dangled several feet of rope, its end tied in a noose. 

Struggling, her neck red and purple from her noose leash, was Lyanna. She was half-naked, her body barely concealed by the thin little shift she was left in. Her curved stomach seemed even more pronounced. At her feet was a pile of silk, her dress perhaps, cut into tatters... 

A few feet in front of her - close enough to tease, but far enough that she could not reach - was a sword. A sword whose blade ran wild with the reflection of the growing wildfire. 

It was like some sick, twisted version of a trial by combat. 

Jaime felt his heart stop as Lyanna turned and made eye contact with him. Her little fingers grappled frantically at the noose squeezing her throat, but it seemed to do no good. She struggled wildly as the majority of Court turned their heads in revulsion, and the king watched in fascinated arousal. 

Jaime registered absolutely no thought at all as he unsheathed his blade. Its hilt burned Lannister gold and ruby in the firelight. His eyes dazedly followed the gleam of naked steel, his mind conjuring two separate but coinciding memories. 

First, his knee as it sunk into the brown earth of Harrenhal's tiltyard. Ser Gerold Hightower had smiled down at him, tall and proud as Jaime repeated the vow of the Kingsguard: to protect and serve the king above all else, from that day until the end of his days. 

And then, the afternoon Prince Rhaegar had taken him riding through the kingswood. _"I'm counting on you,"_ Rhaegar had told him gravely. _"Not only as a spoke in my wheel, but also to keep Lyanna safe."_

Rhaegar had looked at him with those disturbing Targaryen eyes, holding Jaime to his promise. _"Keep her safe, Ser Jaime, no matter what."_

 _This_ was no matter what.

He knew he should have felt a deeper conflict within his soul when it came to making this decision. But it was clear as day. To obey his father, to obey his prince, to save his princess, he would have to slay the king he had vowed his sword to. 

He would have to become a _kingslayer_. 

Jaime took a step forward just as the main doors to the hall burst open and a man raced inside, flitting through the crowd of Court as he tried to reach the king. Jaime knew him for a pyromancer at once by the green rags he wore. 

"Your Grace!" The man shouted. "The gates, your son." He sobbed.

"Spit it out!" Aerys roared over the shrillness of the little boy's dying screams. The stake he was tied to crumbled beneath the growing flames. 

"It's your son, Prince Rhaegar," the pyromancer hurried to say. "He's ridden through the city gates with a Lannister host at his back, and Lord Tywin at his side, fully armored and no chains in sight. The Dragon Prince has lied, Your Grace!"

Jaime's heart stumbled. Aerys let out an inhuman roar, like the shriek of an avenging dragon. "Jonothor! Rouse our soldiers. Arm them with every weapon the armory has. They have a dragon to put down."

 _As do I_ , Jaime thought.

Jonothor cut through Court swiftly, one less obstacle from Jaime's blade to Aerys' back. The burning stake suddenly collapsed in a heap of splinters and ash, crashing as the little boy's bones and blackened muscle clattered to the floor. The air was heavy with the stench of his incinerated life. At once, the wildfire seemed to lash out like an angry beast, its green flames crawling over the marble. 

The lords and ladies of Court screamed as the fire grew, licking toward their feet, hungry for more victims. In a giant wave, the crowd turned and clamored over one another in their attempt to flee the fire. Aerys screamed for them to halt, but his command fell on deaf ears. They seemed to congeal in a thick clog at the hall's door, each one in more of a hurry to escape the king's wrath and the wildfire than the last.

Over the marble floors, the little boy's body had turned to ash and bone, and Lyanna was struggling weakly, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her ears unhearing of the chaos that was growing as fast as Aerys' wildfire. Jaime needed to get to her. But to do so, he would need to slay the king. 

"Rossart," Aerys called out, half fixated on the wildfire that seemed to grow ever larger with each passing second. Most of Court had cleared out, though their screams still rang out through the castle as the wildfire painted the throne room hellish green. Jaime had no idea if it could be stopped at all; all he knew was that he needed to get Lyanna. 

"My son has betrayed me," Aerys growled, "and with the lion no less." No one seemed to notice Jaime or his gleaming golden armor. "Ignite the wildfire caches," the king ordered Rossart. "My son will learn what it is to wake the dragon."

He knew he needed to act now, before the Hand pyromancer could fulfill Aerys' command and level King's Landing to ash and bone. Jaime took long strides forward, his armor glinting like a midday sun. Rossart, so focused on fleeing through the room's side door, did not notice as Jaime approached from behind and slashed his blade through the man's neck. 

Dark blood sprayed Jaime immediately, painting him and his armor in the colors of his House. The wildfire was spreading, making the hall unbearably hot, and the smoke was thick to inhale. Still, he forced himself to lift his sword and turn from Rossart's fresh corpse. 

Aerys turned at the sound of his Hand's death, his anger giving way to the first sign of fear Jaime had seen him convey ever. He felt a sick pride triumph in his heart; Aerys had taken Jaime's life with a white cloak, and Jaime would repay that favor with his sword. 

Aerys turned to run, but since he was frail from lack of eating, he did not make it far before Jaime was on his heels. Jaime reared his elbow back and pushed his blade between the king's shoulder blades, as easy as cutting a cake. 

_One would think kings were made of sturdier stuff_ , Jaime thought wildly, _but they are just the same as the rest of us. Sacks of meat and blood and bone._

Suddenly, Jaime was struck with the memory of Aerys' manic obsession with being reborn a dragon. The king believed that once he died and his body was fed to the flames in the Targaryen funeral style, he would rise again, reborn a mighty dragon to sweep fire over his enemies. 

Jaime would need to slit his throat to make certain that never happened. 

He bent to do so, bringing his sword around to the king's throat, but before he could, Jaime's cheek exploded in pain and he collapsed to the floor. 

Something heavy and sturdy collided into his side, and Jaime groaned, rolling quickly away. Blood was pouring into his left eye, blinding his vision with crimson. With the other, Jaime saw Ser Lewyn raising his blade above. He hadn't accounted for Lewyn. 

Mustering every last ounce of strength he had, Jaime reared up and forward, barreling into Lewyn's knees. The Dornish prince stumbled and fell backward, smashing his head to the marble floor. 

Jaime climbed to his feet unsteadily, reaching for his sword he'd dropped when Lewyn had taken him unaware. Jaime's head swam and pounded, and he coughed violently as the smoke choked him. Green flames were dancing dangerously close to Lyanna's unmoving body.

 _Don't be dead_ , he thought as his eyes welled burning tears, _you can't die!_

Lewyn was looking around in dazed confusion, touching his fingers to his temple. Jaime cut him from ear to ear before he could do anything else. 

He didn't remember cutting Aerys' throat for good or stumbling over to Lyanna. One moment he was killing the Dornish Kingsguard and the next he was kneeling beside the princess, her body mostly laid upon the floor but for her neck, which was suspended at an odd angle by the noose. 

Jaime slashed his blood-soaked sword across the length of rope, and Lyanna's skull smacked into the floor. The noose was still around her throat, as well as two feet of rope, so that she now wore a leash like some dog. 

The throne room was awash in bright green flames, as green as bile and as hot as all seven hells; the wildfire was a monstrous thing now, devouring stone and marble and pillar alike. It had eaten away Rossart's body already and was making its way toward Lewyn and Aerys. 

Jaime found it hard to see through the thick blanket of smoke, but if he left now, he'd still be able to find the king's door. 

Though his head pounded and his eyes shifted uneasily, Jaime forced his hands beneath Lyanna's little body and pulled her against his chest as he rose. She was unconscious or dead in his arms, and though skinny, Jaime found it difficult to bear her weight as his energy was sapped. 

He took a step, then another, blinking hard against the smoke and flame. His throat felt as if he had swallowed a thousand glass shards, and when he coughed, a fine sprinkling of blood sprayed into Lyanna's hair. 

Jaime had no idea how long it took for him to make it to the king's door, to put one foot in front of the other. He passed the Iron Throne, and stumbled through the door, met with the shrill screams of fear and chaos throughout the Red Keep. 

People were running around wildly, but Jaime did not see them. He walked and stumbled, put his left foot forward, then his right. A step, another, and another, another...

The next moment he was making his way into White Sword Tower. The Round Room was untouched by the late king's madness, its snow white walls pristine and forming a circle of the Tower's first floor. It was blessedly quiet. 

At the sight of the weirwood table with its seven chairs, Jaime stumbled for the last time. He and Lyanna fell heavily beneath the Kingsguard table, their bones smashing against the stone floor. 

Jaime's eyes seemed to want to close, hazy and dry, his throat raging for water and clean air. He wanted to sleep forevermore, but he forced himself to rip off his gauntlets and place two fingers beneath Lyanna's jaw. 

He waited several long, horrifying moments and then, he felt it. A thin slow heartbeat, but a beat all the same. Jaime would have smiled if he weren't so damned tired, would have laughed if his skull weren't about to split right open. 

Lyanna was alive and he could finally rest. As he lay his body down, his eyes swept over her. _So much blood_ , he thought dazedly, _why are her thighs wet with blood?_

Jaime curled his body protectively around Lyanna's, his chest against her back, armored arms heavy around her, his legs bent beneath her own. And then, he slept.


	51. The Song of Death

A song of death rang in Rhaegar’s mind, high and thin and overwhelming in its power. The song was death and blood, treason and smoke, ice and fire, love and hate. 

Time passed in strokes of dreamlike sequences, one moment fading into the next, until he couldn’t remember day from night, the sun from the stars. All Rhaegar knew was battle - the way the edge of his Valyrian steel sword Fire drank blood like wine from the skins of his foes, the way he dealt justice with every blow.

His heart was going berserk in his chest, his blood _racing_ , but Rhaegar could neither feel nor comprehend insignificant things like that. His concern was the enemy, and delivering fire and blood like a true dragon warrior.

Every way he turned, there was another dense soldier loyal to Aerys, uncomprehending of the better fate the Dragon Prince presented them; they were men bred to the mindless task of obeying orders sans question, and were blindly loyal to the Mad King up until their last moments of life.

Rhaegar offered peace and prosperity, but they begged for his fire and blood. And like any good king, he gave the people what they wanted.

His mind raced furiously, flashes of steel and lions one moments, thoughts of a grey-eyed girl the next. Ahead, a knight in white was coming right for him, his face crumpled in fury as he drew his blade. 

Rhaegar’s Fire met Ser Jonothor’s own blade, their steel song ringing through his head and down his arm. Their blows were mighty, his strength mounting. He had never been one for Ser Jonothor’s cold demeanor, his mean face, but it didn’t make it any easier trying to kill him either.

The man was a Kingsguard, considered one of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms by all standards. But it was also said that the Dragon Prince was a peerless warrior, and each time their blades crossed, Rhaegar tried to be that knight of valor and might.

All around him the battle raged on, Lannister soldiers against Targaryen loyalists, Kingsguards against foes, Rhaegar against Jonothor.

As their blades met again, Rhaegar realized Ser Jonothor had gone too high. Quickly, before he lost his chance, he sliced Fire against the flat of Jonothor’s sword, like a bow to an instrument, and ran it across the knight’s belly.

Jonothor’s entrails spilled immediately like stuffing, pink and red guts sliding to the ground in a sloppy heap. There was a moment of choked surprise, and then he was dead on the ground, his life snuffed out like an old flame.

Rhaegar’s head swam uneasily, and the sounds around him seemed to melt together into one long chorus of death and destruction. How funny the gods forged the world in that to deliver an age of peace, there had to be a few moments of pure desecration.

It felt like hours later that the battling finally waned, the song of death dying out as those left decided to bend the knee to Rhaegar’s cause. As he looked around, he realized with a start that there were less dead than he had originally imagined, more bending the knee than off to the seven hells.

But the floor was still littered with fallen soldiers, clogged like the filthy streets of Flea Bottom.

“Ser Amory,” the prince called out. Amory Lorch was a knight loyal to House Lannister, and had split with Rhaegar’s group when entering the Red Keep.

Amory came over immediately, his blade dripping with life’s blood. He had a queer smile on his face that Rhaegar misliked. “Yes, Your Grace?”

 _Your Grace_ , Rhaegar thought, _I am their king now._ His eyes swept the bloody corridor. _But where is my father?_

“Gather your men and strip the soldiers who have surrendered of their weapons. Then escort them to the barracks to await food and a maester’s care.”

Ser Amory doubled over in his bow and marched off, barking orders at his fellow Lannister soldiers. Ser Arthur, Ser Gerold, and Ser Oswell drifted over, their eyes sweeping sadly over their fallen Kingsguard at Rhaegar’s feet. Barristan had gone with Lord Tywin’s group of fighters.

“Ser Gerold,” Rhaegar said in a hollow voice, “check the throne room. The king is missing, and the sooner we find him, the better.” 

Before the siege of the castle, Rhaegar had told the host of Lannister soldiers that should they come upon the king, do nothing but arrest him and stow him away in a safe place. Rhaegar would not have kinslaying on his hands.

When Ser Gerold left, Rhaegar turned to Oswell. “I need you to check the Maidenvault and the lower bailey. My father could be hiding.” _Especially now that the Maidenvault is empty._

Rhaegar’s mind couldn’t help but return to Lyanna, just like it had every day he’d been apart from her. 

What would she look like when he saw her again? He had been gone from her for two months. She would be almost four months pregnant now, her belly curved with the life they had made together. Oh, how sweet it would be to lay his eyes on her once again, to lay her down and show her just how much he had missed her.

With Oswell and Gerold deployed to the task of finding the king, Rhaegar led Arthur to Maegor’s Holdfast. Along with his order about maintaining the king’s life, Rhaegar had also told the Lannister host, in no uncertain terms, that should they run into Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys, they too were to remain unmolested.

Rhaegar had distrusted many a soldier Lord Tywin had brought with them from the West, namely Amory Lorch and a massive man they dubbed “the Mountain.” Battle turned certain men into monsters.

At the drawbridge leading to Maegor’s, no sentry was posted. Rhaegar and Arthur approached slowly, wary of the glaring absence of a Kingsguard. He wondered where Ser Lewyn was, the only other White Sword to remain with Aerys besides the slain Jonothor.

Arthur and Rhaegar wound their way through the royal apartments, coming upon Ser Kevan Lannister talking softly with the queen and the little prince outside her chambers.

When Rhaella heard their approaching footsteps, she looked up, and seeing it was her son, she broke into a sprint. Rhaegar caught her with two battle-tired arms, suddenly awash with the familiar scent of his mother. She wept into his neck, shaking and frightened.

“Oh, you beautiful boy,” she cried, “my beautiful, beautiful boy.”

Rhaegar squeezed her before drawing back. He nearly shuddered at the sight of her. Obviously woken from sleep, not having any time to pull anything on other than a robe, the bites and gouges and claw marks were on full display.

Rhaella lay both hands on his cheekbones, her eyes shining with tears. “You should have told me. You should have told me.”

He hadn’t told his mother of his plot to overthrow his father. It had felt too risky; if Aerys had found out Rhaegar’s plans, he hadn’t wanted his mother to be implicated alongside him, especially given she was forced to stay in King’s Landing rather than sail off to Dragonstone with Lyanna.

Viserys had come up to clutch Rhaegar’s bloody armor, sullying his perfect pale skin. Rhaegar knelt, sweeping a knuckle over his soft cheek.

And then Viserys said the two words that turned his blood to ice. “Where’s Lya?”

All sound was sucked from the air, and all Rhaegar felt was his heart in his throat. “What?”

“Lya,” Viserys insisted impatiently, “where is she?” The little prince craned his head around, as if Rhaegar were somehow hiding his far-off wife from view.

“She’s at Dragonstone, Vis, you know this,” Rhaegar responded, something heavy settling in his chest, something he did not want to face.

“No,” Viserys said stubbornly, “she’s _here_. We take walks together every morning, and sometimes she even lets me sleep in your room with her when Mother is busy.”

Rhaegar’s eyes flashed up to his mother’s in alarm, hoping against hope the queen would laugh and hush the little prince from his wild stories. 

But she didn’t. Rhaella frowned at Rhaegar’s expression. “She’s here,” she confirmed for him slowly. “She stayed in King’s Landing. Ser Jaime, and her ladies, too.”

Rhaegar felt suddenly faint, like he would drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes. No, this couldn’t be happening. He’d arranged for her passage himself, had written a letter for the ship’s captain and spoken to Ser Jaime. This was some terrible misunderstanding.

But his mother wouldn’t lie, and Viserys wasn’t tainted enough to deceive him. _Why is she here? Why…why…why…_ He needed to find her, and soon, before something awful happened. And when he found her, he would rage like an autumn storm, and press his mouth to hers to wash away the panic she’d caused him.

Before he could do anything, Ser Oswell rounded the corner, panting and breathless, his face leached of color and his eyes wide. Rhaegar did not like that look.

“The princess,” he murmured breathily, “Lyanna, she-” Oswell fumbled for words, horror writ plain on his face.

“Tell me,” Rhaegar demanded, dread dulling his soul.

Oswell could not find his tongue, though, instead waving them over and running back from where he’d come. Rhaegar followed immediately, aware of the host of footsteps at his back. They raced out of Maegor’s Holdfast and through the corridors to White Sword Tower, the apartments and living space of the Kingsguards.

Confusion and fear were ripe in him. What did White Sword Tower have to do with Lyanna? Soldiers garbed in crimson and gold milled outside, but inside there were a few blocking the door. Oswell shoved through them roughly, Rhaegar following.

The tower seemed untouched by the fighting, its walls and furniture still pale and pure, as befit the Kingsguard livery. Rhaegar’s eyes swept around the room, searching for the source of the panic that had seemed to overcome Oswell, before coming to a startled stop at the weirwood meeting table in the center of the room.

Beneath the table, one wrapped around the other, were Lyanna and Ser Jaime Lannister. It took several long moments of sheer shock before Rhaegar came alive, his eyes cataloging every detail of the scene that had everyone so horrified and gaping.

Lyanna was only dressed in a small little shift dress that came to the top of her thighs, much like the one she’d worn the night he had taken her maidenhead in his bath. Her hair was wild and tangled, her skin red with scratches, her legs bloodied. 

But the most horrifying thing was the necklace around her throat – a tight noose that bit into her skin and a severed length of rope that made it look like she was a dog on a leash. Around it her skin was purple, red, and raw.

Curled around her back was Jaime, clad in Lannister armor that was more crimson than gold, his plate painted with blood, old and new. His golden curls were limp with sweat and his skin was pale except for the gigantic green and blue bruise blooming across his cheek.

A wolf pup and a lion cub, burrowed in a white cave, both asleep. _Not dead, not dead, she’s unconscious, she can’t be dead._

Rhaegar felt sick. “Someone find Maester Pycelle!” He barked.

As bodies moved around him, hurrying to fulfill his order, he kept his eyes on his wife. What had happened? Why had she stayed, why was that noose around her neck, why was there so much blood? He had so many questions. _Not dead_.

“I want to see her!” He heard Viserys screech somewhere behind him. “I want to see Lya!”

Rhaegar could not move, but he listened as Rhaella soothed the little prince, eventually convincing him away. Rhaegar was grateful.

His hands itched to touch her, but he wanted all the gawkers away. Arthur was a silent shadow by his side.

“Get everyone out, but for you and Oswell. Admit no one but Maester Pycelle.”

Arthur nodded, immediately gathering the Lannister soldiers and pushing them out of White Sword Tower. When he was finished, only Oswell remained.

“I thought she was supposed to go to Dragonstone,” Oswell said quietly. It was so disturbingly peaceful in the room, it felt queer to raise one’s voice.

“She was,” Rhaegar whispered back. His feet moved forward of their own accord and soon he was kneeling at Lyanna’s side, his fingers brushing over her cheekbone. At once, his eyes were drawn to the small bulge of her stomach. He cried out without meaning to, a small moment of surprised happiness overtaking him.

And then, she moaned, the sound of it harsh and scratchy. _Not dead_.

“Lyanna,” Rhaegar said aloud, his heart pounding in his chest. “Lyanna,” he tried again.

Her lips parted, and a small sob escaped though she did not open her eyes. “I want Rhaegar,” she cried, “please, please. I want my dragon.”

Rhaegar had never felt a relief so palpable. He nearly fainted from the force of it, the tears slipping down his cheeks. “I’m here, it’s Rhaegar.”

“I want Rhaegar,” she cried louder, her eyes opening but not seeing. Those grey eyes were glassy and unfocused, sweeping the immediate area. Crystal tears were staining the filth on her skin clear. “I want my dragon. Please make it stop hurting, Rhaegar, make it go away.”

Her words were quick and sloppy, and it was as if her thoughts were bleeding out involuntarily. 

Rhaegar let the tears wash down his face as he bent and placed a searing kiss against her cheekbone. “I’m right here,” he whispered.

Behind him, Maester Pycelle came into the room. “Do not lift her,” he warned, “she may have broken bones.”

Rhaegar immediately drew aside to allow the Grand Maester room. Pycelle knelt, to be sure, but his eyes were focused on one thing and one thing only.

In a quiet voice, the old maester said, “Turn her on her back, if you would. Slowly and with great care.”

Rhaegar furrowed his brows, but followed Pycelle’s changed orders. He gently pulled Lyanna toward him and out of Ser Jaime’s hold, then shifted her on her back.

Slightly away from her previous position, Rhaegar immediately saw the puddle of blood and gore she had left behind. “What is that?” He gasped, his heart flying to his throat. His eyes flashed to Lyanna, to the smears of blood between her exposed thighs.

 _Was she raped, stabbed, sliced open? Was she mutilated, was the blood even from her thighs at all?_ Did he know the answer in his heart, but refused to acknowledge it? 

His soul didn’t have room left for hurt at this point, after finding out she had stayed in the capital, after seeing her tied up like a dog and obviously brutalized, after hearing her cries of distress as she called for him.

“My prince.” Rhaegar looked over to Pycelle in surprise, so lost in his own thoughts. The old maester looked tired and sad, wearing the same expression that Arthur and Oswell were giving him.

“What?” He snapped defensively. _Don’t say it_ , he thought. “Why is she bleeding like that?”

“My dragon,” Lyanna whispered, as if in a fever dream, her eyes like grey glass. “Dragon…”

“My prince,” Pycelle tried again, his eyes soft. “We must get her to a clean, empty room so that I may examine her.”

Rhaegar nodded dazedly, his mind swimming once more. “Take her to my chambers.” 

Arthur tore off his white cloak and lay it over the princess’ body, leaving her face free; then Arthur and Oswell gently lifted her from the ground and carried her away.

Rhaegar’s eyes were stuck to the puddle of blood and pieces of gore that were left behind on the stone. He could not look away from one piece in particular. 

Pycelle stood shakily, grunting with the effort of his movements. He moved to shuffle away, but stopped at once and half-turned back to the prince.

“I will find a casket for the babe.”


	52. Grief in the Aftermath

The evening sky was a purple-grey shroud, streaked with clouds of pale blue and periwinkle and blush-pink. From the clouds, veins of white-hot lightning struck the horizon and reflected their pale twins across the shimmering waters. It was a beautiful night. Too beautiful for the black sadness resting over a royal heart.

A cold wind raised a crop of goosebumps across Lyanna’s skin, chilling her through her clothing. _Winter is coming, and it means to root out this false spring._

She sat atop the battlement that crowned Maegor’s Holdfast alone, staring out across the city. Flea Bottom was as lively as ever, untouched by Aerys’ horrors and Rhaegar’s siege. Their laughter and shouts were drowned out by the rumble of thunder in the distance.

Lyanna stared at the far-off striking lightning, wondering if the Old Gods had come to seek vengeance for her loss in the South. Was it they who employed the clouds to storm at the sea, to lash at the earth? Did they wish to rage on behalf of her lost child, to strike hell on earth for her little fallen wolf?

King’s Landing was vast and stinking of shit before her. Had it ever seemed beautiful to her before? With King Aerys missing, she found that every corner, every wall, every room, every space seemed ugly. Lyanna wanted to take her hands around the city, wring it for all it was worth, and pluck the little rat king from his hiding spot. 

_He could be dead_ , she thought briefly. But no…life was not a song, and villains were not killed by the mighty heroes. In life, the villains won and the heroes fought for naught. 

Another cold wind blew, this time bringing the faint scent of apples. She suddenly remembered the night Rhaegar had brought her up here, the way he had played and laughed with her, the way their lips had met hungrily in apple cake and wine-soaked kisses. She wondered if she would ever feel hunger again – hunger for life, hunger for wine, hunger for food, hunger for waking in the morning.

It was as if every organ in her body had been picked clean, and all that was left was an empty corpse. Lyanna felt half-dead, deaf to the struggles of the world around her. She felt nothing, nothing at all. There was a hole where her heart had been, and there was only emptiness where her babe had lived.

The cold wind served to chill her skin, and if she closed her eyes she could pretend it was a summer’s day in Winterfell. But she wasn’t home and it wasn’t summer. Winter was coming for King’s Landing, and the false spring was dying.

She shifted on the battlement, peering downward. It was a long fall, sure. She wondered what it would be like to drop, to have those few precious moments of flying before the sweet release of death embraced her. Her baby was dead, and it was her fault…so what was the point of anything anymore?

 _“…you will birth children. Three to be exact.”_ Maggy’s voice was clear as a bell in Lyanna’s thoughts, and as incessant as the grey plague. How deft the fortune teller’s words had been, how specifically chosen. _Birth_ three, she had said, but Maggy had made no mentions of the blood spoils her womb would expel.

Lyanna’s eyes narrowed against the wind. What did Maggy the Frog know anyway? _She was a crone and a poor one at that, who sucked my blood to satisfy her fetish – nothing more, nothing less._

Lyanna’s mind went back to her babe. She had fallen unconscious the previous night, struggling against the noose that threatened to take her life, and had woken in Rhaegar’s chambers, old Maester Pycelle bent between her open thighs. She had screamed bloody murder.

Well, screamed as much as she could, anyway. The lining of her throat was damaged greatly, from both excessive smoke inhalation as well as the strangulation she had suffered from the noose. This had all been explained to her once Rhaegar had burst into the room at her scream.

And then, once she’d calmed, she noticed the blood staining her thighs. Her fingernails had raked savagely over the delicate skin, and she’d had to be held back from murdering Pycelle when he had announced she lost her baby.

 _My sweet baby…_ Hot tears ran down Lyanna’s cheeks as she leaned over the battlement. She had never even gotten to feel it kick, and now she never would. _I should have gone to Dragonstone, I should have left Viserys and Rhaella behind…_ Should have, should have, should have.

A funeral was to be had for her and Rhaegar’s babe in the morning in the Great Sept of Baelor, with the High Septon presiding over the ceremony.

But for all the pomp of the Faith, Lyanna knew her child’s soul had gone to rest with the Old Gods, at peace with the clouds and skies and snows. The great heart tree of Winterfell would keep her babe safe now. She only hoped her own soul would make it there one day, too.

“Your Grace.” Ser Arthur appeared, looked up at the sky, then down at her. “Let us go inside now. It will rain soon.”

 _Your Grace_ , Lyanna thought to herself darkly. _I’ve lost a babe, but I’ve gained a title. I am their queen now, but all I am is a sack of skin and bones with no heart to make me feel._

She did not answer him. She had not spoken since she had woken that morning, screaming. She had not said a word when it was explained that Ser Jaime had dragged her from the Great Hall, did not shriek her grief when it was dropped that she had miscarried her child. She had only tried to wrap her hands around Maester Pycelle’s throat. But she did not speak.

Ser Arthur frowned. “Your Grace, please, let me help you inside. You’re not even supposed to be out of bed.”

Lyanna would have chuckled had her heart not been ripped out. _What is the point of staying in bed, when there is no life left within me to protect?_ All the same, she allowed him to pick her up and carry her back down the stairs into Maegor’s Holdfast.

When they reached Rhaegar’s bedchamber, she refused to enter. It had been her living space for two months, ever since Rhaegar had left for Casterly Rock, but it no longer felt like hers. Rhaegar was a king now and he would need to act like it. This was no time to play at summer; winter was almost upon them. 

She leaned against the wall after Arthur put her down. “Would you like me to help you inside?” He asked softly.

Lyanna shook her head, allowing the tears to spill over her cheeks.

“Do you want me to find Rhaegar?” Arthur asked slowly.

She shook her head again, sucked in a breath and croaked, “Maidenvault.” 

Though he seemed confused, Arthur did not object. While he had had to carry her down from the battlement atop Maegor’s, for everything else a wheeled chair had been found in the Keep’s storage. Rhaegar had insisted she use it to get around so as not to overwork herself. 

In all honesty, he would have rather she stay in bed. It had not even been a full day since Rhaegar had returned with his army and taken the castle, but Lyanna refused to stay abed any longer. Again, she couldn’t help but wonder why all the precautions; she had already lost their babe and no wheeled chair could bring back the dead.

She hurriedly wiped away the fresh tears lest Ser Arthur witness more of her shame. Though, from rumor, she’d heard the white knight had been one of the two to carry her from White Sword Tower. He’d seen enough of her shame to last a lifetime…

Arthur pushed her along the floor, her wheeled chair creaking with the movements. Lyanna suspected it hadn’t been used in a long time. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, so that all she could see were the feet of those they passed. The sounds of their talk made her temples pound with a sharp pain. 

Once they were inside the Maidenvault, she flicked the hood back. And then she thought of her brother, Brandon. She briefly wondered if Ser Arthur knew that they shared a niece now, that their Houses were bound by blood.

Most likely he did, but did not wish to bring it up. After all, who in their sane mind would bring up a new child to the grief-stricken queen?

Lyanna cried silently. The dark gloom of the Maidenvault was almost welcoming, like the numb embrace of knee-deep snows in the godswood at Winterfell. She and Benjen had been wild things as children, and they played every moment that was not spent on learning, eating, or sleeping.

When they had played at hide-and-seek, Lyanna would climb the massive weirwood and hide amongst its blood-red leaves, watching in fascination as Benjen below tried to find her. He had never been tall enough to even think of climbing the heart tree, let alone look for her there.

She missed Benjen the most. She wondered if he would come if she summoned him.

“Here we are,” Arthur said softly, wheeling her into her old room.

The bed within was just as she had remembered it, still massive, and topped with new bedding. It had been stripped bare in her haste to leave King’s Landing for Dragonstone, but when she had lied to the old king and had her things brought back from the ship, her room had been made up once more. All her belongings were stacked exactly where she had left them.

Next to her window, a pair of chairs were situated to look outside. She pointed and Arthur helped her into one of them.

Sitting, she went to scratch at the linen plastered to her throat then stopped short. The little cuts Ser Lewyn had made on her skin, coupled with her struggle against the rope noose, had left her neck one giant open wound. Maester Pycelle had done what he could, slathering it with a special ointment and binding the gashes with strips of linen, but it did not stop the pain. Or the itching.

“Is there anything else, Your Grace?” Ser Arthur asked. 

Outside the sky was darkening to a dreamy purple, and the rain was soft as a mother’s kiss against the glass of her window. She shook her head in two small jerks.

Ser Arthur didn’t say a word as he left, quiet as a ghost as he drifted from the room, pulling the door shut behind him. When she was finally alone, the bells began to toll.

* * *

_Fire cannot kill a dragon_ , Rhaegar thought as he stared into the charred husk that was the Great Hall. It had been less than an hour since the Guild of Alchemists had finally stopped the wildfire, but still the room shimmered with heat, like standing in the mouth of an oven.

The only things that had survived the wildfire’s wrath were the dragon skulls, massive and gleaming like onyx in the waning evening light, and the Balerion-forged Iron Throne, towering over the ruins of its former hall.

Everything else was blackened and burnt – the great oak-and-bronze doors that had opened to the Hall, the long stretch of carpet that had stretched the length of the room, the fat pillars which had been veined with white and sand, the gallery above, the high dyed glass windows.

There was much and more to be cleaned before the rebuilding began, but no one dared tread inside. The marble floors had largely withstood the wildfire, sagging only in choice places, but they now emitted a hellish type of heat that could burn right through any boots or slippers and eat your skin.

A few of the pyromancers had learned that to their detriment.

All through the night, the Guild of Alchemists had worked to tame and kill the green fire. Though eventually successful, after many long hours, the Guild had lost several of their brothers and suffered far too many burns.

 _It serves them right_ , Rhaegar thought darkly. _Their beloved jade monster does not discriminate with its flames._

He was of a mind to completely demolish the Guild as his first official act as king, but Rhaegar had to wait. Varys had been privy to the knowledge that King Aerys had pots of wildfire placed all over the city and Red Keep, and was quick to ingratiate himself to the new ruler by readily giving up that information.

Rhaegar would need all the pyromancers to root out and destroy every last one of the remaining caches of wildfire, and _then_ he would disassemble their group.

Coming out of his thoughts, Rhaegar studied the throne room once more. Ash and debris lay across the floor, some piles bigger than others. He wondered which was his father.

Rhaegar’s life had been a whirlwind of chaos since the battle had begun the night before. After Lyanna was brought to his chambers, and Jaime was taken to his own, there had been a thousand things needing tending to.

The deceased and injured, the wildfire burning, keeping Rhaella and Viserys in Maegor’s, trying to gather ravens so that he could send pleas for the maesters of the Crownlands. There were too many ill and injured for Pycelle and his acolytes to handle. It was a full first day of kingly duties.

He had assigned Ser Arthur to watch over Lyanna in his absence, while Oswell followed Rhaegar from place to place. And then, Ser Jaime had woken.

Rhaegar had visited with the Young Lion alone, Oswell left outside. Lord Tywin had sat at his son’s bedside, and Pycelle had delivered a warning of Jaime’s health before he departed.

Ser Jaime’s jaw was broken, the entire left side of his face warped and blooming with a colorful bruise. His throat as well was damaged from inhaling too much smoke. He’d been given a considerable amount of milk of the poppy for his pain, and because of that, Jaime had confessed his sins.

 _“I killed him,”_ Ser Jaime had rasped without provocation, his green eyes fluttering wildly, _“I killed my king.”_

Lord Tywin had been quick to insert himself. _“He does not know what he says, Your Grace,”_ Tywin had tried, _“he’s not of his right mind. Aerys could be hiding.”_

 _“I put my sword in Aerys’ back, then slit his throat,”_ Jaime had murmured right after, closing his eyes. _“I killed him for Lyanna.”_

Lord Tywin’s eyes had shone in fury, but Rhaegar made no mention of it. Instead, he had silently stood and slipped from the room, and posted Ser Barristan outside Jaime’s chambers. Then he had instructed the bells to be rung for seven days, as befit the passing of kings.

There would be a day that Ser Jaime was not laden with milk of the poppy, and only then would Rhaegar get the full truth and decide what he was going to do with him. _My father is dead…_

He might have interrogated one of the many that had fled from the throne room once the wildfire had grown temperamental, but Rhaegar did not want to hear of his wife's torture or Jaime's injuries from anyone but them personally. There would be more than enough gossip flying around once Lyanna showed her face at their child's funeral in the morning, and he would rather not have his perspective skewed by talk.

As the day came to a close and night fell over the capital, Rhaegar was ready to drop. He desperately wanted to sleep, to bury his face in his wife’s hair as they lay in his bed. He wanted to run his fingers over her skin and press his mouth to every wound she bore.

He still did not know the story of how she and Jaime had been hurt, or what had sparked her miscarriage. Rhaegar was not ready to make Lyanna repeat the story for fear of her trauma, and he would have to wait until Jaime himself was sober for his side.

Still, he could hold his girl and they could grieve for their child together.

But when he got to his room, it was empty of presence. Frowning, Rhaegar went to his mother’s chambers, but Lyanna was not there either. He might have checked Viserys’ rooms next, but the little prince was with Rhaella.

Lacking in answers, Rhaegar wandered the castle before stopping two servants that were heading toward the Maidenvault, their arms heavy with food. “What are you doing?” No one lived within the Maidenvault except for Lyanna, and she had been sleeping in Maegor’s Holdfast for quite some time, according to Viserys.

“Ser told us to bring the princess supper,” one murmured quietly, keeping her eyes down.

“The _queen_ ," he corrected her immediately, and then, "My wife is inside?”

They both nodded, fearful. 

“Very well then,” Rhaegar allowed. Oswell went to open the massive doors to let the servers inside. Rhaegar followed, confused, wondering why his wife had hidden away in this gloomy place. He had assumed she would stay with him…

Posted outside the door, Ser Arthur stood in white armor. “My king,” he said, bowing his head.

“Arthur,” Rhaegar returned. “Why is she here?”

Arthur shook his head. “She would not speak, except to say ‘Maidenvault’, so I brought her here.”

Inside her old room, Lyanna sat in the dark, her chair pulled up to look out the window. She did not even twitch or move a muscle as the four entered the room. The two servers began to lay out the food on the small table in the corner, and then lit ten fat candles before leaving.

“Oswell,” Rhaegar said quietly, “could you wait outside with Arthur please?”

Oswell inclined his head and shut the door behind him.

Rhaegar approached Lyanna slowly, settling himself into the empty chair beside her own. She continued to look out the window, her cheeks slick with tears. The sight of her made his heart ache.

“Lyanna,” he whispered, going to settle a hand atop hers. Though she twitched violently, she did not make to pull away.

Rhaegar studied the linen wrapped around her neck. Maester Pycelle had said her wounds were no ordinary wounds from a noose, but exacerbated somehow. He’d slathered a special salve around her throat and bound it with linen, but it was still splotched with fresh dots of blood.

“Why are you in the Maidenvault?” Rhaegar asked, hoping against hope she would answer him. She hadn’t spoken a word since he had found her in White Sword Tower, since she had called out for him, for _“her dragon.”_

“I thought you might like to come sleep with me tonight,” Rhaegar tried again. “I could light a fire so you’re not cold, just like our wedding night…”

Crystal tears ran down Lyanna’s cheeks, but she did not make a sound. Her grief was silent, but it hit his soul all the same.

“Are you hungry?” He tried. “Arthur made sure you were brought food.”

Lyanna did not respond. She continued to stare out the window, her tears streaming. Rhaegar felt tears and frustration well inside him. _It was my baby, too_ , he wanted to say, _let me mourn with you, so that we can rise from this together, stronger._

He was dying to ask her why she had stayed in King’s Landing, why she had decided not to go to Dragonstone, but he did not want to risk hurling her into more inner turmoil. Her distance now scared him more than battle or blood.

“Do you want me to stay here with you tonight?”

Though she did not reply, she did shake her head left then right. _No_ , the movement said.

And then, selfishly, just because he wanted her to show him something, _anything_ , he blurted out, "Ser Jaime killed my father. That's why the bells are ringing."

Her grey eyes widened, but she did not move to look at him. Her jaw clenched and her tears came faster, her fingers curling around the arms of her chair. Rhaegar felt terrible immediately, and wished he could have taken that back, wished he could dry all her tears. To make up for his folly, he would let her have her night of solace without interruption.

Though he hated it, it couldn’t hurt to let her stay in the Maidenvault one night alone. He would send Arthur to sleep soon, and have Ser Gerold watch over her instead. The White Bull would watch over his beloved wolf. Rhaegar could let her have this night of silence, and then he would move her into Maegor’s, whether in his personal chambers or in new ones of her own.

“Ser Gerold will be just outside the door,” Rhaegar promised, “and I will be in my rooms should you need me.” He waited for a reply but did not receive one. “Sleep well, beautiful.”

He had just gotten to the door when he heard her harsh, rasping voice. “It was a girl.”

He turned quickly, his head spinning. “What did you say?”

Her infinitely sad eyes slid to his, glimmering in the candlelight. “Our child. Grand Maester Pycelle said it was a girl.”

The breath wooshed out of Rhaegar’s lungs, and tears spilled down his face. A girl, a precious girl… _Could anything hurt worse than this?_ He blinked a dozen times quickly, trying to think of what he could say, what words he could offer, but…

“If you could shut the door on your way out,” Lyanna whispered with her damaged voice, “I would like to sleep now.” 

Rhaegar did not argue, did not object; he only did what she asked, half-occupied by thoughts of a little baby girl with silver hair and purple eyes. Lyanna’s tears continued to fall even after he closed the door behind him.


	53. Two Lives and One Lost

Morning dawned cold, and the sun crept up from the horizon to wash the city in liquid gold from waters to commons to stone. Behind the sun, the sky began pale, turning as each hour passed so that by midday it seemed as bright as the field of House Arryn’s arms.

And yet, despite the splendor of the gleaming golden sun and magnificent blue sky, the day remained bitingly cold. _Winter is coming and it threatens to steal my heart_ , Rhaegar thought sadly as he looked over his kingdom from atop Maegor’s Holdfast.

From his vantage point, he could see everything: the glittering bays of the Blackwater, the interweaving streets and alleyways that boasted steel and silk, the Dragonpit lonesome atop Rhaenys’ Hill, and finally the Great Sept of Baelor, sprawling and resplendent.

The sun cast down its great light on the Sept’s curved crystal dome, shedding rainbows down on the gods and crypts within. The same crypts in which he and Lyanna had buried their child’s ashes only hours before. He had dressed in black pants and tunic and doublet and boots, and Lyanna had worn a high-necked black dress to hide her wounds from the throngs of city-dwellers that had come to see their new king and queen.

And the bells had tolled all morning long, and would continue to do so for six more days. _May Aerys rest in peace_ , he thought, _in all seven of the hells._ Rhaegar may still not have known what had happened specifically to Lyanna to make Ser Jaime Lannister kill his king, but he knew Aerys was at fault…

"My king," a meek voice called from the doorway that led to the spiraling steps back into Maegor’s. 

Rhaegar turned. The voice belonged to an assistant of Maester Pycelle, a young thing no older than Lyanna or Jaime, with a strip of red peach fuzz adorning his face and a head as smooth as an egg.

"A raven came, Your Grace. Grand Maester told me to bring it to you." 

Pycelle was seeing quite possibly one of the busiest times in his old life; with the ill and injured still piled high, and maesters from the Crownlands still working their way to the Red Keep, it fell to the Grand Maester and his acolytes to tend to those who needed care most.

Ser Jaime’s jaw was broken, but was otherwise fine, kept unconscious with scheduled doses of milk of the poppy for the pain. Lyanna, as well, was unhurt past her neck, so she was not in dire need of Pycelle’s help.

But the Targaryen guards that had knelt and surrendered suffered broken bones and slashed skins, and many of the Lannister soldiers were ailing from similar injuries. So the Grand Maester flitted through the barracks all day long, and retired well into the night. Rhaegar had not seen him since Ser Jaime had confessed his treason.

Pycelle’s assistant handed over the raven’s message to Rhaegar, bowing deeply before rushing past Ser Arthur and back down into Maegor’s Holdfast. Rhaegar narrowed his eyes at the message, its seal white and embossed with a snarling direwolf – a message from Winterfell.

 _Odd_ , Rhaegar thought, _I only sent a raven to Lord Rickard yesterday telling him of my and Lyanna’s loss, and my father’s death. There is no chance he’s received my raven so soon…_

As it turned out, Lord Rickard didn’t, but oh how Rhaegar wished that was what the message entailed instead. After he’d picked apart the snow white wax and uncoiled the parchment, his eyes had read over every word with increasing dread.

This message had obviously been sent some time ago, addressed to _Prince_ Rhaegar and Lyanna…and Lord Rickard wrote to share the good tidings that Eddard was expecting his first child by Lady Catelyn. 

A sort of numb disbelief settled over Rhaegar, wondering not for the first time why they had been punished so to lose their first. He couldn’t show this letter to Lyanna who, not only just miscarried in her first pregnancy, but had just also been forced to watch the tiny babe’s body burn in its wooden casket before its ashes were piled into a small onyx box.

It was just another thing to weigh on his shoulders, to add another hole to his heart. Rhaegar was so unbelievably fatigued, so fed up with the black cloud that seemed to hang over everyone’s heads. Frustrated, he coiled the letter back to its original shape and stuffed it into his pockets before going for the stairs. Arthur followed him silently.

The whole castle seemed to be quiet, except for the tolling bells. Even in death, his father was disrespectful. Rhaegar strode to his room, tired beyond belief and just wishing to hold Lyanna…

But she was praying in the godswood, as she had been since they had returned from their babe’s funeral, and wasn’t likely to finish until night fell. Instead Rhaegar made do alone. Inside his room, he stripped down to his smallclothes and slipped beneath the covers, tossing and turning until his head was nestled comfortably in his pillow.

He closed his eyes, and dreamt of a tall, slim boy that had a wolf’s heart and the blood of the dragon.

* * *

"Your Grace. Your Grace, please, wake up. Your Grace!" The voice was hurried and cut into Rhaegar’s slumber, its sound disrupting the dream he’d been having of a boy with a burning sword. "Your Grace, you have to wake."

Rhaegar’s eyes opened slowly, the blurriness of his surroundings only exacerbated by the darkness of his room. It was night, the sky black velvet.

"Your Grace," the voice insisted once more, accompanied by three heavy-booted steps. "Please, it’s the queen."

Rhaegar sat up quickly in bed, dread mixing through his racing blood. Adrenaline left a sick taste in his mouth. Or was that fear? "What is it? What’s happened?"

Ser Barristan shone pale at his bedside, his eyes wide. "It’s Queen Lyanna. Please, come."

Rhaegar climbed from bed confused and bleary-eyed, pulling on his unlaced pants and tunic from the funeral that morning. "Tell me," he demanded as he stepped into his boots and swept from the room.

Ser Barristan led Rhaegar through Maegor’s as he explained, "The little queen, she slipped out of her new chambers and made it to Aerys’ old rooms somehow without anyone seeing…"

Rhaegar had had Lyanna’s things moved into new quarters within Maegor’s Holdfast that morning while they had been gone. "What is she doing there?" He asked, coming more and more alive with each step. Outside the bells still tolled loudly through the night, but beneath that, he heard something else, something guttural.

"She somehow got her hands on Fire," Barristan said quickly, "but I do not know how. It was locked in the armory." His voice quivered.

They turned the corner and that faint guttural noise he’d heard erupted into a full-fledged stream of echoing screams. The screams were blood-curdling, full of anguish and despair, but most of all hate.

Outside his father’s old room, his mother stood, peering inside the open doorway. Ser Oswell could be heard inside, trying to calm down Lyanna. Rhaegar ran as fast as his legs would take him, shouldering past his mother and Oswell inside Aerys’ rooms.

The inside was completely destroyed.

The once-magnificent canopy bed of the king had been ripped to shreds of silk, their red scraps lying about like little wisps of flames. The posts of the bed were hacked away, chunks of wood scattering the floor like little islands. The pillows had been utterly demolished, their feathers floating languidly in the air.

The twin bedside tables had also been chopped at, as well as the chests, trunks, and wardrobes that held the king’s clothes. Aerys’ robes and breeches and tunics and doublets were torn and cut into thousands of rich strips, and an empty decanter of wine had obviously been dashed against the wall. The wall was dry, but the decanter lay shattered upon the floor, glass shards everywhere.

Lyanna swung Fire around mercilessly, its blade running rampant with the colors of living flame – orange and yellow and red. Horrible, gravelly shrieks tore from her throat as she sliced into the featherbed like it was some foe. Only the sobs were worse than the screams.

"Lyanna!" Rhaegar called out louder than Oswell, louder than the bells, louder than Lyanna herself.

Lyanna froze at once, spinning on her heel to face him. Her pale skin was splotched red from her efforts, and her cheeks glistened with the tears of her misery. The nightgown she wore was slashed in several places, most likely from her free-swinging hand.

Her lips parted as she whispered, "Rhaegar," and Fire slipped from her hand to clatter on the floor. And then she ran forward to jump into Rhaegar’s arms, dissolving once more into sobs so deep and full of pain that it nearly broke his heart in two.

He hushed her as he went to his knees, smoothing a hand over her hair and down her back. Her arms wound tighter about his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing tight to him like a child would to their beloved toy.

"What are you doing in here?" He asked, having to raise his voice so she could hear over her own cries.

"I couldn’t sleep," she sobbed sloppily, so obviously drunk. That explained the shattered wine decanter. "Those bells, they ring all day and all night. They seep into my sleep, so that all I dream is death and destruction and _your father_."

 _My father is gone_ , Rhaegar wanted to say, _he can’t hurt you…_

"I hate him," she screamed. "I hate him with the passion of a thousand suns. I want to bring him back from the dead just so I can kill him myself. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him…"

"He’s gone," Rhaegar promised with a frown, "he’s not coming back."

"I don’t care! He deserves the pain, he deserves to suffer for what he did. He took our baby, Rhaegar, he took our baby away."

Rhaegar’s heart sped up in his chest as he clutched her tighter against him. Was she going to confess what happened? Would he finally know what she had been through the night he had taken the castle? He was entirely too aware of his mother, Ser Oswell, and Ser Barristan still standing as witnesses at the door.

"He killed our baby," she cried softly. "I tried to save that little boy, I really did. I didn’t want him to burn."

Rhaegar was lost. "What little boy?"

"The one they accused of stealing," she said in her warped voice. "I demanded a trial by combat for him, but no one would help." She sobbed louder. "Aerys forced me to be the champion. He tied me up with rope and put a sword out of my reach and set the boy on fire while I strangled myself trying to help. I tried so hard…

"He made Ser Lewyn strip me, and then Ser Jonothor held me down while Lewyn cut up my neck. The noose, it hurt so bad."

Rhaegar felt bile rising in his throat, and it was all he could do not to rage in absolute frustration and black hate for his father. The image of Lyanna strung up like an animal, struggling for her and some child’s life, was almost more than he could take. More than the image tattooed behind his eyelids of the blood she’d left behind in White Sword Tower.

"Jaime, Jaime," Lyanna chanted, "Jaime came-"

"Shh," he hushed quickly into her ear. He couldn’t have anyone else knowing that Jaime had killed Aerys. That was a secret that only he, his mother, Lyanna, Ser Jaime, and Lord Tywin knew, and that was the way Rhaegar intended to keep it. He wouldn’t have the boy labeled "kingslayer" before he even figured out what he was going to do with him.

"The king made me watch that little boy burn," she wept in a rasping voice like rocks, hiccupping wildly against his neck. "He _touched_ me."

Rhaegar's eyes flashed up suddenly and met his mother's. Her purple eyes seemed full of dawning realization… _No, no, no._

Lyanna began to sob harder, her nails digging into his skin with her impossible desperation to get closer. "He put his hand between my legs and touched me. He said he would make me carry his dragon next, and he _felt_ me." Her tears melted through his shirt as her body shook. "No one’s supposed to touch me there except for you."

Rhaegar squeezed his eyes close, the dragon’s fury building at an alarming speed within him. He wanted to rage and curse and take Fire and swing it at any man that dared too close. He wanted to kill and maim and torture, and bring Aerys back from the dead so that he could flay every piece of his body so that he, too, could reap what pain he had caused.

He had tortured Lyanna, molested her, strangled her, and probably watched in fascination as the baby within her began to die.

The dragon inside him had never been woken so quickly before.

"I just want it to go away," she whimpered against him quietly, "I just want you to make the pain go away."

Tears slipped from the corners of Rhaegar’s eyes, sadness that was completely at odds with the black fury he felt in his heart. He climbed to his feet, holding Lyanna against his body. "I'm going to take you to my room, alright?"

She nodded into his neck, her legs and arms tight about him. He carried her in a daze to his room, unseeing and unhearing, shutting and barring the door behind them both. Then he sat on the bed, still holding her against him like a child.

"I hate him so much," she whimpered. "I just want our baby back."

As did he, but it was best to leave the dead alone, no matter how broken your heart. "I know, I know. I do, too."

"I should have gone to Dragonstone like you wanted me to," she admitted dazedly, "but the king hit Viserys and was raping your mother, and I couldn’t bear to leave them behind."

Everything clicked into place at once, information and images rushing his head all in a jumble. His brain was going wild, his heart pounding, his sadness and wrath mixing together dangerously, waiting to explode.

Lyanna sniffled pitifully as she drew back from his hold. Her grey eyes were shining with unshed tears, her skin flushed, and her lips swollen. She bent forward without warning and pressed her mouth to his in a desperate kiss.

And despite the hysterics of earlier, despite the battling sadness and rage within, Rhaegar kissed her back. It was the weeks and weeks of being without her, those months away, these past few days of such complete heartache and anguish piling up like ice and snow in his heart.

Her lips tasted like wine and salt, were hot like fire, and insistent against his. Her tongue was slick and sweet in his mouth, her hands tugging painfully at his hair. He couldn’t help the moan that escaped him, couldn’t help that he was already half-hard beneath her straddled legs.

Shame was building, shame for getting aroused when moments ago she had confessed his father's tortures, shame for enjoying the feel of his wife after two months away. "Lyanna," he said into her mouth, "we need to stop."

She slipped her hand into his unlaced pants, her skin warm against his cock. "No."

"Lyanna," he tried again, his eyes rolling back from pleasure. "You need to rest. We can’t do this."

She stopped kissing him, pulling back so she could look into his eyes. Her hand was still wrapped inside his breeches, her skin achingly smooth. "You don’t want me anymore?" New tears fell down her cheeks.

"What? Yes, of course I do," he said immediately, slipping one hand beneath her chin. _I…I…_ No, he couldn’t say that now. "You don’t know how badly I want you, but…this isn’t a good idea, not tonight."

"But…you’re my king, my _husband_ , you’re meant to make children with me. Don’t you want our baby back?"

He smiled sadly, rubbing a thumb over her bottom lip. "We cannot bring our baby back, sweetheart. But we will make new ones one day." _The dragon has three heads…_

Her hand withdrew from his pants, and went to thread with his own free fingers. "Then why not tonight? My heart is broken, and I need your hands to erase the feel of _his_ on my skin. I’m yours and you are mine," she vowed quietly, her voice breaking with every word.

"Yes," he whispered, his heart hammering.

She bent forward to brush her lips against his and a tear touched his skin. "Then prove it."

Her tongue was sweet and soft in his mouth, her hands tugging desperately at his tunic. He allowed her to slip it off his chest and head, but stopped her when she went to his pants.

"It’s too soon," he insisted, "you just lost…" He stopped his words short. Her face fell and she met his gaze. Looking into her eyes, Rhaegar suddenly realized just how drunk she truly was.

"It isn’t too soon," she said carefully, glassy-eyed.

Rhaegar sighed, knowing her stubbornness was far greater than his. "Well, did Maester Pycelle say anything about laying together after-"

"I don’t care what Pycelle says!" She snapped suddenly, fiercely, the force of her words louder than thunder, louder than the ringing of the death bells. 

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes at her sudden anger. "I’m not going to have sex with you and end up hurting you worse."

"You won’t hurt me worse," she said in a voice like a whipcrack.

"What if I _did_ though, and you couldn’t end up having children? What then?"

That had been the wrong thing to say. Her face crumpled, her chin quivering as a new fall of tears washed down her face. The linen around her throat suddenly bloomed with fresh dots of blood, her neck wounds weeping with her eyes.

As gently as possible, Rhaegar slid her from his lap and lay her down upon his pillows. "I’m going to get a maester," he murmured before going for the door. "You’re bleeding."

"Not Maester Pycelle!" She gasped, half-sitting up, tears falling down her face, her eyes wild. "Please, not him, not Pycelle."

That was the second time she had reacted strongly to mention of the Grand Maester, and it only served to confuse him. "Alright, I won’t, I’ll get someone else."

Rhaegar slipped from his room and closed the door behind him. "Ser Barristan, could you fetch a maester for me? Not Maester Pycelle though, someone else…"

The White Knight nodded and went at once, arriving back quickly with a sleepy-eyed maester that Lord Tywin had brought along. "My wife’s wounds are bleeding again," he informed the man. "They’ll need to be cleaned and bound with fresh linen. And after, give her one small dose of sweetsleep to help her calm."

The maester nodded and went inside Rhaegar’s room. "I’m going to see my mother," Rhaegar told Ser Barristan, "stay with Lyanna and don’t let her leave. The sweetsleep should put her under, but in case it doesn’t, do not leave her side."

Ser Barristan nodded gravely. "Of course, Your Grace."

Rhaegar found his mother in her rooms, still awake from Lyanna’s earlier fit. She sat at her desk, bent over, writing a letter. Rhaella smiled sadly when Rhaegar approached, standing to envelope him in a hug.

"Oh, my boy," she sighed before stepping back and sitting once more. "How is she?"

Rhaegar let his tears fall freely. "I don’t know what to do. She’s hurting so badly, and I can’t help."

"You can help," Rhaella assured him immediately, "but perhaps not in the way you’re thinking."

He scrubbed his face with his hands and sighed deeply. "How can I help her? I lost a child as well, but she _carried_ it. I cannot even begin to imagine her pain."

"Well, for a start, you can get her out of this castle."

His mother’s words took his breath away. "What? Send her away?" He was incredulous. He couldn’t send Lyanna away; they needed to heal together, be together, cry and laugh together, make more children together.

"Not _away_ ," Rhaella corrected him quickly, "send her with me."

Rhaegar furrowed his brows. "Where are you going?"

"Dragonstone, my love."

"Dragonstone? Why? I’m king now, and Father is no longer here to torment you. You can finally have the life you were meant to have."

Rhaella smiled sadly. "Your father is gone, yes, but he’s still here, in part." Her hand came to rest over her stomach gently.

Rhaegar’s heart went into his throat and his eyes were full of panic. "You’re…"

"Pregnant," she finished. "Yes, I’ve been sick for weeks and I haven’t known why. I’d thought I was done carrying children, but it seems I was wrong."

He could hardly catch a breath. "I can’t believe it. I don’t know what to say." First Lady Catelyn and now his mother…two new lives and one lost.

Rhaella said, "It was hard for me to take in, too. I’m probably two months along now. I never told your father. I was waiting for the right time, and…"

"Now he’s dead," Rhaegar choked out.

"Slain," she whispered softly, "by Ser Jaime."

Rhaegar looked up. "I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with him yet. I don’t know what to do," he confessed.

Rhaella frowned. "A Kingsguard swears to his king his undying loyalty, and Ser Jaime broke that promise a thousandfold."

"Yes, I know," Rhaegar said sadly. In truth, he’d been hoping there would be a way to spare the boy’s life, to keep him as a Kingsguard somehow…

"But," Rhaella continued on, "how many of your father’s gallant Kingsguards stood by while he tortured me, stood by while he tortured others? A Kingsguard must be more than his blind obedience, he must be first a knight. And what is a knight if he does not protect those who need it most?"

Rhaegar suddenly remembered the conversation he’d had with Ser Jaime in the kingswood right before he had left for Casterly Rock. "I made Ser Jaime promise, before I left, that he would keep Lyanna safe no matter what."

Rhaella took a deep breath. "It seems to me then that Ser Jaime kept his oath. Only it was to a different king."

Rhaegar smiled with absolutely no humor. "He killed Father to save my wife."

"Your wife," Rhaella inserted, "and your queen. You should be thanking him."

Rhaegar suddenly realized that he would not punish the Young Lion, but rather offer him something…a way to give Lord Tywin the reward he so obviously expected and to make up for the white cloak Aerys had bestowed upon Jaime in order to spite his father.

"Let Lyanna come with me to Dragonstone," Rhaella tried again, "let her heart heal away from this broken and burnt place. Rebuild the damage and align yourself with your advisors, then bring her back so you can begin your family once more."


	54. A Pack and a Pride

Rhaegar awoke to the sound of lapping water, gentle and smooth and calm as a lullaby. The air in his chambers was heavy from scented candles, and warm too. He rolled over in confusion, frowning, and climbed from his empty bed. 

The floor was littered with black clothes, clothes he'd shed from his babe's funeral the day before, as well as a thin nightgown, a woman's smallclothes, and two pairs of boots. Water lapped again, followed by a hoarse, sad sigh. He looked over at the alcove set into one wall. 

The curtain of his bathing pool was cast aside so that he could see every inch of Lyanna's naked body as she lounged back. Her feet shifted lightly so that the water swayed against the edge of the pool, then kicked back to glide across her skin like a lover's hand. 

"Good morning," she whispered in her raspy voice, still broken from the abuse of smoke and noose. Rhaegar was reminded of the story she'd sobbed to him the night before, of Aerys' brutality and her torture, and he felt a cold fury rising in him once again. 

"How," he said, stopping to lick his lips as he was distracted by the water running in crystal streams down her neck and between her full breasts. "How did you get a bath started?"

"You," she replied softly, "slept heavily."

And he had. After getting the maester to calm Lyanna down, and then speaking with his mother, Rhaegar had slunk to bed just as the sun was waking. But now, with the vision of her naked and wet before him, he'd never been more awake. 

"Mind if I join you?"

She tilted her head back so that the water drenched her hair. "I don't mind."

He stripped off his smallclothes quickly and joined her in the water, its bite as hot as a dragon's breath. It made him think of Dragonstone and what his mother had suggested. 

"Would you like me to wash you?" He grabbed the bar of soap from the side of the bath, lathering it in the water. 

Lyanna looked as if she were about to reject his offer, but he was surprised to see her nod. She cut through the water and came to sit between his legs, her hair over one shoulder and her back to him. He was selfishly glad for that; the sight of the slight curve of her stomach sent knives through his heart, knowing that no life grew beneath anymore. 

He glided the soap across her naked back, smoothing his hands in soaping circles over her skin. "I want to talk to you about something," he began. 

"If it's about last night," she said slowly in that husky voice, "it won't happen again. I'm sorry."

He frowned and bent forward to press his lips against the back of her neck. "I never want you to apologize for that. My father can never be absolved for this sin."

He continued to wash her back, sliding his hands all over her in distracted fascination. Her skin was slick and hot, and he imagined what it would be like to slip inside her and make stars explode behind both of their eyes. 

He shook his head clear of his lust. "I want to send you to Dragonstone with my mother."

Lyanna froze immediately, turning her head so that he could see one grey eye shining in confusion. "You want me away?"

"No," he said immediately, "I would love nothing more than to have you here with me, but my mother suggested that you might profit from some time away from the castle right now."

Lyanna's eyes dimmed, going to some far-off place that only she knew of. When she snapped out of it, she seemed full of unsettling serenity. "If that's what you think is best."

Her easy acceptance threw him off guard at once. Lyanna never conceded easily. "It won't be for long," he promised. "I'll get the Keep cleaned and I'll have the damage fixed and rebuilt. You'll only be gone for a few months."

She met his eyes and nodded, all calm and complacent. But beneath the grey of her stare, he read every single emotion churning in her soul. It nearly broke his heart. 

"My mother," he said, this time very slowly and with incredible misplaced guilt, "has found out that she's pregnant."

The hurt was raw on her face and she didn't even try to hide it. "Pregnant?" She breathed. "I see. I assume the pregnancy was not reached out of love?"

The echoing memories of the first time he'd heard his father "visiting" his mother still haunted him. "No," he confirmed, "it was not." 

Lyanna nodded and dropped her chin so that wet hair plastered to her cheek. She looked so small there, slender and pale and _tiny_. It made him want to wrap her in his hold forever so that no more pain could be dealt to her. 

"You will only be gone for a few months," he promised again, pulling her body sideways into his lap so that he could rest his forehead against hers. "It will be hard to be without you," he admitted. "I might just have to come visit."

She didn't even seem to hear his words. "Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?"

Rhaegar's brow furrowed and he studied her stubborn-set jaw. "No...?"

"There is no news from Winterfell?" She pressed, working her jaw. Her eyes were grey as the direwolf of Stark. 

His stomach seemed to drop to his feet. "Oh, that."

"Yes," she said, " _that_. I found the letter in the pocket of your breeches this morning when I woke."

Rhaegar closed his eyes, sighing. "It came yesterday. I was waiting to tell you."

Lyanna was quiet for a very long time, content to sit in his lap and think. Then, "I should not be envious." A single tear danced down her cheek. "It is not your mother's, nor my brother or Catelyn's fault that I lost ours."

His chest spasmed in pain. _How many times can a heart break before it is completely gone?_

She sighed heavily and swallowed, wincing from the pain in her throat. Rhaegar pulled back, lightly fingering the drenched linen wrapped around her throat. It was just another reminder of their loss. 

"Can I see?" He murmured without thinking. 

Lyanna blinked in surprise, then nodded after several moments of hesitance, allowing him to strip off the many layers of white binding. Free of the linen, her wounds were pink and puckered, gaping in some places, almost closed in others. It would scar if she didn't regularly apply Pycelle's ointment, and even then, it still might. 

Rhaegar made a mental note to find Pycelle and commission more of the salve for her. He had not seen the Grand Maester at all, the old man busy from sunup to sundown with the ill and injured of the castle, his only help a group of acolytes and the one maester Lord Tywin had brought from the Westerlands. 

With graceful care, Rhaegar bent forward and pressed a kiss into her throat, hoping to sear her with his warmth. He felt her sigh, her body relaxing into his as his lips moved beneath her chin, then up again. 

When she kissed him, her mouth tasted like the salt of her tears and the sadness in her heart. Her little hand pressed into the skin over his heart as if to wrench his soul from his body from sheer will, her tongue coming to trace his bottom lip lightly. 

He pulled away from her before nothing became something. The stirrings of desire already pooled warmth in his belly, and he was as hard as iron beneath her thighs. 

Lyanna's face was flushed becomingly, cheeks pink and glowing, her grey eyes fevered as they drifted open. Her hair was dark and drenched, flowing down her back like a sleek waterfall. 

"You're so beautiful," he sighed in worship. 

"I'm nothing," she replied in a voice like shards of glass, "compared to you."

 _How many times can a heart break?_ He thought again.

* * *

White Sword Tower was just as quiet as it always seemed to be, a pure white world devoid of chaos. The heat of the afternoon had waned bit by bit until the air was cool against the skin. 

Rhaegar climbed the stairs that led to the second floor where half of the Kingsguard stayed, finding Ser Jaime's door wide open. Within, Lord Tywin was tall and regal, dressed in Lannister crimson and gold, his pale green eyes sweeping to Rhaegar as he entered. 

Ser Jaime's cat-green eyes were fresh and wide, his state obviously sober for the first time in days. His jaw was still swollen and warped, the entire left side of his face painted with a multi-colored bruise. He rose from his bed on sturdy legs. 

"Your Grace," Jaime bowed reverently. His broken jaw made his words warbled, his mouth only opening an inch. 

"Ser Jaime," Rhaegar said back, "Lord Tywin."

The Lannister Lord was as cool and cordial as ever. "My king."

"Ser," Rhaegar turned to the Young Lion, "I think it is high time we speak, don't you agree?"

Even in a weakened state, Ser Jaime would not show his fear. "Of course, Your Grace." He stayed standing even as Rhaegar sat in one of the empty chairs scattered about the room. Despite the lack of fear, there was tension corded in Jaime's figure, his muscles frozen harder than stone. 

Rhaegar decided to be blunt. "Lyanna has told me what happened that night at Court." He would not repeat her story for the likes of Tywin Lannister. "And you admitted to murdering my father, albeit under the effect of milk of the poppy. Though I do not think you would deny your crime in the sober light of day, would you?"

Ser Jaime's jaw was clenched hard enough to break. "No, Your Grace, I freely admit my treason. I killed King Aerys. Ser Lewyn and Wisdom Rossart as well."

Rhaegar had suspected foul play of Lewyn's disappearance, but had yet to spare a thought for the pyromancer. "I've thought long and hard, and I've come to a decision as to what to offer you."

Jaime blinked, stunned. Lord Tywin as well, though usually clear of expression, seemed surprised. The room was utterly quiet. 

"Offer me?" Jaime repeated skeptically. "You don't mean to have me executed?" His cat-green eyes narrowed, his body rigid, on guard in case Rhaegar was doling tricks. 

"I'm not going to execute you," Rhaegar said mildly. "I do mean to give you a choice though. You may have killed your king, but you kept your promise to me and saved my wife. That debt needs to be repaid." _A Targaryen can repay his debts, too. Good or bad._

"I had to save her," Jaime murmured, words as quiet as the sigh of a breeze. 

Rhaegar ignored that and went on to say, "Ser Jaime, I'm going to offer you the option to shed the white cloak of the Kingsguard and return to Casterly Rock as your lord father's heir."

The room was still with stunned silence and, beneath that, victory. Lord Tywin was as straight and stony as a statue, but his eyes were pools of triumph; his eyes seemed to be laughing - perhaps at Aerys, his old friend, who had once taken his lion son away for the sake of spite, only to be murdered by that same boy in return. 

"No," Jaime murmured. 

Rhaegar frowned. "What?"

Jaime swallowed, his eyes coming alive. "No, thank you, Your Grace. I appreciate the choice, but I wish to remain with the Kingsguard, if you will allow it."

Cold fury suddenly replaced the eager triumph that had been in Tywin Lannister's eyes. "My king, would you please allow my son a few days to think this over? He has only just begun weaning himself from milk of the poppy."

Jaime threw an insolent look to his father. "I don't need a few days to think this over. I don't even need an hour. I will remain a part of His Grace's seven, and don the white cloak with honor."

Honor was a double-edged sword for Ser Jaime Lannister. _You killed your king, but saved your queen._

Rhaegar stood, grasping Ser Jaime's hand. "Very well. I will not offer the chance again."

Jaime's chin lifted. "I understand, Your Grace."

Tywin radiated nothing but unadulterated fury and disappointment, though his face betrayed nothing. As always. 

"Your treason will be kept a secret," Rhaegar informed them both. "Only us in this room, Lyanna, and my mother know of how my father died. I would like to keep it that way. Otherwise, your head _will_ be called for, yes?"

Jaime nodded at once. "Yes, Your Grace."

Rhaegar continued on to his next order of business. "I'm sending Lyanna to Dragonstone for a few months with my mother and Viserys while I fix this castle and assemble my council. A few of Lyanna's ladies will come as well. Most have been given leave to return to their homes after the tragedy of Court and the siege. 

"You will be going as well, to guard my wife. Your jaw may be broken, but I assume that has not left you bereft of skills with a sword?"

Jaime's bright eyes widened, vibrant life seeping into his gaze. "Of course not, Your Grace."

Others might have argued that it was unsafe to leave his wife and queen in the hands of an injured man, but Rhaegar knew better. If the glory-hungry Lannister boy would murder his king in cold blood for Lyanna, Rhaegar would never need doubt his devotion when it came to protecting her. 

"Very good," he said, "I will make the arrangements and see to it myself that you all board the ship of my choosing." _That_ had been a dig at the first passage to Dragonstone Rhaegar had arranged, though Lyanna had admitted it was her fault they'd stayed. 

Jaime swallowed and nodded, chagrined. 

"Lord Tywin, walk with me." Rhaegar turned abruptly and strode from the room, waiting until the Lord of Lannister caught up. 

Together they walked through the lower bailey and up the serpentine steps that led past the Maidenvault and fed right into the middle bailey. 

Without preamble Rhaegar said, "I would like you to be my Hand, Lord Tywin."

Tywin Lannister's pale eyes slid to Rhaegar's, not at all surprised. It was part of the debt he felt he was due, no doubt. With the utmost grace, he knelt before Rhaegar and bowed his head. "It would be my honor, Your Grace, to serve as your Hand."

Behind his gratitude, a mean displeasure still lingered at his son's refusal to reclaim his rights as heir to Casterly Rock. Tywin's dwarf son, Tyrion, came next in line for all the happiness it gave his father. 

"The Tower of the Hand was left untouched by the fighting or the fire," Rhaegar informed Tywin as he climbed back to his feet. "You can send for your belongings, and move in as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Your Grace. I believe we can restore the realm to prosperity and peace." Tywin inclined his head, his eyes flaring. Power seemed to appease him, though he surely expected more for his part in Rhaegar's ascension to king. Rhaegar had one more thing to give him. 

"As do I," Rhaegar replied, his mind drifting to Lyanna and how she would fare at Dragonstone. She would have Rhaella and Viserys, of course, and Jaime too...but only three of her ladies wished to remain after the catastrophe of the other night - Johanna Mallister and two twins from the Crownlands. It would not do. He could kill two birds with one stone. 

"If that is all, Your Grace...?" Lord Tywin's voice drifted off, brows raised. 

"Actually, there is one more thing." Rhaegar rubbed a hand over his jaw. "How would your daughter feel about moving to King's Landing?"

 _That_ had taken Tywin Lannister off guard, though only momentarily. Smoothly, he replied, "She would do whatever her king desired of her. Cersei knows her duty."

Rhaegar tried for a smile. "Very good. I have given many of my wife's ladies-in-waiting their leave to return to their families, and I think it would be good for her to have replacements when she returns from Dragonstone. Lady Cersei is noble and gracious. I think they will get along."

Tywin Lannister's eyes glittered like sea glass, and for a moment Rhaegar could swear the lion was _smiling_. "Of course, Your Grace, I agree. Cersei would be most thankful to attend the new queen."

 _Good_ , Rhaegar thought, _then you can consider your debt repaid._ "Lyanna will be very pleased to meet her when she returns."

Tywin's mouth held the ghost of a smile as he bowed. "I will send for my daughter at once."


	55. Firewyrm

The Red Keep seemed to be a whirlwind of chaos the morning of Lyanna's departure. There were servants rushing around, gathering trunks and chests, ladies tittering about the journey to Dragonstone, squires readying the horses and wagons at the stables. 

It was mere minutes before Lyanna would be hustled to her own horse to ride down from Aegon's High Hill to the ship awaiting her, and yet she was still in bed. Curled up, her knees to her chest, Rhaegar's blankets thrown over her, enveloping her with his smell. Tears sprang to her eyes, and the pinch in her chest grew more pronounced. 

She could almost hear her heart splintering, the pain was so intense. Fear sat in a lump at the base of her throat, tasting like bile, tasting like regret. _I should have gone to Dragonstone the first time, maybe then I..._ No. 

She tried to convince herself to look around, to take it all in, to soak in every last inch of Rhaegar's chambers. _What if I never see this room again?_ Her tears were warm on her cheeks, warm like fire, warm as the heat of the stake as that little boy had burned to death. Her heart cracked once more. 

Rhaegar's door was constantly being opened and closed as the servants carried the belongings she kept there to the wagons, but she'd had the canopy curtains drawn so no one could see her within. It was like being safe in a dragon's wing, warm and dark and smelling of _him_. 

The door opened again, closed, boots took several steps, and then the sound of silk sighing against silk. "Lyanna," Rhaegar whispered, settling a hand over her hip. "Lyanna, it's time to go."

Her heart squeezed and she bit her lip to stifle a sob so hard that she broke the skin immediately. Blood filled her mouth. It tasted like punishment, one she would take gladly if only...

Suddenly the covers were pulled from her face, sweeping her skin gently, and then Rhaegar was there - tall and slim, dressed in shades of grey and black for mourning. Over his shoulders was a long hooded cloak of black wool that was lined in flashing red silk. His hair was a spill of silver down his neck and shoulders. 

"Lovely girl," he smiled sadly, "it's time to go."

She would not argue with Rhaegar, not when...

Lyanna sat up and slunk from the bed, bending to pull on her riding boots before going for the door. She felt like any fight she'd had in her before had been bled from her the day her babe died. _My babe, blood, dead...I should have gone to Dragonstone before. My naïveté will have forever been my undoing._

Rhaegar's hand was calloused as it slipped through hers, their fingers threading together like latticework. Just the feel of his skin sent her heart racing and her blood simmering. 

"Are you ready?" He asked, completely unaware of his effect on her. 

_Never_ , she knew. "Yes," she whispered. 

She didn't remember walking to the yard, climbing atop Smoke, or even riding down Aegon's High Hill to where the ship waited. It was all a blur, of sights and sounds and smells. She wondered if somewhere out there Beth and her babe and her orphans had been watching. _I should have told them bye, while I had the chance._

One moment she was striding from Rhaegar's chambers and the next she was atop the deck of _Firewyrm_ , a small ship with big red sails that was supposedly faster than any warship afloat. The High Septon himself had even climbed aboard to offer her his blessing on her voyage, despite her lack of faith in the Faith. 

No fight left in her, she allowed him to pray over her upturned face, all the while thinking how stupid a ritual it was. _If I'm meant to die, the Old Gods will take me home, and no amount of muttered words from a bent old man in crystals will change that._

When the High Septon finished, he kissed her hands and walked back down the steep plank. Servants were still bringing chests aboard as she stood looking out over the bay. Rhaegar was speaking to the captain, his cloak snapping in the wind; on its back, a three-headed dragon was done in glossy red silk, the same material with which it was lined on the inside. 

A hand at her elbow made Lyanna jump. Ser Jaime Lannister was still as beautiful as ever in the natural light, though the left side of his face was swollen and discolored, his skin blooming green and black and yellow. His jaw sat oddly, giving him an almost perpetual smirk. 

Lyanna didn't have much to smile for these days, but she smiled for Jaime. She had not seen him since that night she was strangling herself with the noose, seeing him slip through the king's door in golden armor. 

Jaime smiled back and said, "Your Grace." The title held the slightest edge of playful mocking to it. 

"Ser," she returned. She might have made a jest at his expense, but flashes of the night the little boy died screaming ran in her mind. She didn't remember Jaime saving her, but she knew he did by Rhaegar's account. 

Jaime had killed the Mad King for her as well, Ser Lewyn too. Lyanna remembered kneeling in the Red Keep's godswood that one day long ago, praying for a hero to kill Rhaegar's father. She recalled the way the leaves had rustled at her plea. _The Old Gods answered my prayer_ , she realized in wonderment, _and sent me Jaime_. 

"Thank you," she blurted out awkwardly. 

Jaime blinked, suddenly raking a handful of curls away from his face; they caught the sun and turned to Lannister gold. "It was my duty." He seemed to know what she meant, but his answer was just as awkward, as his eyes flitted around. 

"Jaime," she said quietly to get his attention. Her voice carried over the wind and his eyes flashed up; they looked like two jade stones in the sunlight. " _Thank you_ ," she tried again, injecting sincerity into her tone. "You saved me and could have died trying. So...thank you."

When Jaime smiled at her again, there was no more awkwardness, only the shade of her friend that taught her sword lessons and whispered jokes about the lords and ladies of Court. 

"The captain says you're about to leave." Rhaegar approached, sending a small look to Ser Jaime, before trying a smile for her. 

"Your Grace," Jaime bowed and made his way deeper into the ship, leaving them. 

Alone with Rhaegar, Lyanna felt her heart pounding and her tears threatening to return. _Don't send me away_ , she thought, _you might never bring me back._

Rhaegar ghosted his knuckles down her cheek, unfazed by the crowd that had gathered above to watch the departure of the queen. "You won't be gone for long," he promised. This seemed to be said for his benefit as much as it was for hers; _you won't be gone for long_ was a prayer repeated every day by his lips, as though if it was said more than once it would turn true. 

Lyanna thought it just took away the meaning. She nodded anyway, shivering at the tingles his skin sent through hers. 

"I will miss you," he confided, dropping his eyes in embarrassment. 

Her heart ached fiercely. _Will you?_ She couldn't speak or she would cry, but she wanted him to know she would miss him too. 

Rhaegar frowned when he saw her tears, using the pads of his fingers to clear away her sadness. Then he drew her into his arms, pressing his warmth and his scent into her bones. It only made her sadder. 

Then he drew back just enough to tilt her chin up with two fingers, and placed a warm chaste kiss to her mouth. Even in the shadow of death and loss and so much uncertainty, she couldn't deny the stirrings of raw desire in her belly. 

_Will I ever get to lay with him again?_

"I will visit you soon," he whispered against her mouth. 

"I look forward to it," she sighed, trying not to cringe at the sound of her own rasping voice. Her throat still ached to talk, to eat, to swallow, to cry. Rhaegar's father ruined everything. 

_Everything..._ The black anger she'd become so accustomed to reared its head, but she forced it down so that she could remember telling her husband goodbye. 

Rhaegar smiled at her, the beauty of it so overwhelming she had to glance away. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw him fumbling with the ties at his neck before slipping his cloak off his shoulders. "Turn," he murmured, and she did. 

The weight of his cloak being settled over her shoulders brought back memories of their wedding day, though this cloak was less extravagant than her bride's cloak had been. 

And yet still, it was warm from his body and smelled like his skin and Lyanna thought she could hear her heart splinter again over the rush of the bay. 

Rhaegar tied the ties loosely around her neck and then pulled her in for one last hug. "Soon," he promised one more time before he made his way down the steep plank to the quay, joining Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold and Lord Tywin and the rest. 

The horns on _Firewyrm_ blew their fanfare as the ship's lines were cast off, oars pushing out from shore and into the current. Lyanna's remaining ladies waved excitedly from the deck, Johanna and the twins, as did Viserys and Queen Rhaella, but Lyanna stood still as a statue, clutching Rhaegar's cloak around her shoulders. 

Jaime came over to her, a twin to her own suffering of that night. _What a pair we make for the songs_ , she thought wryly, _a lion with its whiskers cut and a wolf leashed for all of Court to see. They'll sing about us in the years to come..._

Lyanna turned finally, holding on to the ship's lip, her eyes searching for Rhaegar in the crowd. He was easy to find, all long legs and silver hair, a great beauty that only came around but for once in a lifetime. _And he was mine, is mine, was mine, is..._

In the wind, Jaime's white cloak was streaming like a peace banner and mixing with the tail of hers, black and white, the lion and the dragon-wolf.


	56. Of Salt and Smoke

Seventeen days without his wolf was more than enough for Rhaegar Targaryen. Seventeen days, countless hours, each morning thrusting him into an instant gloom that hung over his head like a black cloud as he abided by his kingship. 

Only his dreams were a reprieve from the struggles of rebuilding the damage of the Red Keep. Each night in his chambers, alone in an empty bed, Rhaegar dreamed of children - three to be exact. 

A dark-haired boy filling the halls with screams of delighted laughter, a silver-haired child with an abundance of grace in gleaming silver eyes, and another silver dragon with eyes of purple and too much mischief in its veins. 

Every dream was different, but the children stayed the same. And each one had a piece of himself and a piece of Lyanna in them, whether it was their boldness or solemnity or sharp wit. 

But only _that_ boy had Lyanna's look and Rhaegar's eyes...the prince that was promised, prophesied to be heralded in by the streak of a bleeding sky, born amidst salt and smoke. _Salt and smoke..._

The air was heavy with salt, the deep, dark waves of Blackwater Bay drinking hungrily at the ship's hull. _The Dread_ was a swift and lean ship, painted black as obsidian with large sheets of black silk sails. A figurehead wrought of iron sat at the ship's prow, its shape a screaming dragon's head. 

Ahead, the vision of Dragonstone on the horizon was becoming larger and larger as _The Dread_ sailed forward, quick and mighty and ruthless as the dragon after which it was named. On deck, the captain was bellowing orders and the crew scrambled to follow, oars dipping into the water, lines slithering down like water snakes. 

The Targaryen stronghold loomed ahead, beautiful and imposing in its grim shade. 

Dragonstone was a fortress shaped in the likeness of dragons, erected by Valyrians of old. Each wall, tower, and corner was black stone and crowned by a grey gargoyle, every one a different creature of a thousand. It was a grim place, isolated in the great salt sea, with the hulking shadow of the volcano Dragonmont smoking at its back. 

_The Dread_ was surrounded by ships as it slipped into the anchorage, big-bellied carracks and squared cogs and fishing vessels, even _The Pride of Driftmark_ , a silver-hulled warship that belonged to House Velaryon. The air was filled with the shouts of the fishing town nearby, and punctuated by the crew's bellows and the captain's bark. 

The water lapped at the ship greedily, its dark waves deep and lovely as dragonglass. The salt and smoke of the isle was a most welcome smell compared to the constant cloud of feces and fish that hung over King's Landing. 

Rhaegar had always loved Dragonstone, though he did not spend nearly enough time there. _This is Viserys' seat now_ , Rhaegar realized, _until Lyanna bears me another child, a son._ Even thinking about that filled Rhaegar with joy, though the memory of his lost daughter still weighed heavy on his heart. 

_Rhaella_ , he remembered Lyanna had wanted to name the child if it was a girl, after his own queen mother. He wondered if Lyanna would want to keep the name should they have another princess, or if she would choose another, one that had not been steeped in tragedy and grief. 

On the quay, a tall, slim man met them, dressed in silk of sea-green and a seahorse brooch of white gold. The man could easily have been mistaken for a Targaryen himself with his slender build and pale hair. Only the eyes were different. 

Monford Velaryon, the Lord of Driftmark and the castellan Rhaegar had temporarily named to Dragonstone, had eyes of grey-green, like seawater. 

"My king." Monford went down on one knee and bowed his head of pale hair. 

"Rise," Rhaegar said. 

Monford stood as tall as Rhaegar, six feet and a handful of inches. He grasped Rhaegar's hand firmly. "I am sorry for your loss."

Whether Monford meant his father or his child, Rhaegar did not know. "Thank you," was all he said. He turned to Arthur then. "Have Oswell make sure Maester Pycelle makes it to the castle. I want him to see my mother."

The Grand Maester was not a seaman and this voyage had proven so. Though still up to his ears with the injured at the Red Keep, Rhaegar had insisted on bringing Pycelle along to check on his mother's pregnancy. He did not want to fully entrust his mother's care to an untried maester like Dragonstone's new man of the Citadel. 

And though she seemed to harbor an inexplicable aversion to him, Rhaegar also wanted Maester Pycelle to examine Lyanna once more, to see whether or not she was safe to lay with again. _Gods help me, I want my prince, but I want to touch her as well. Kiss her, bury myself inside her..._

Arthur's voice shook him from his mind. "Yes, Your Grace."

Rhaegar and Lord Monford made their way together to the castle of Dragonstone with Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan following, speaking of lighter things. Monford regaled Rhaegar with the tale of a nasty, quick storm that had shattered a few windows in Sea Dragon Tower, where the rookery was located and the new maester sent from the Citadel lived. 

"Maester...Cole, was it?" Rhaegar remembered receiving a letter from the Citadel after Dragonstone's old maester had died, informing him of the fresh boy they were sending as replacement. Monford went first through the gates and led their way toward the main keep. 

"Yes, Your Grace, his name is Maester Cole. Twenty-five years of age, but still flinches like a green boy when the thunder rattles Stone Drum." Monford laughed. "He's had quite a handful with the little prince."

Rhaegar smiled, imagining Viserys causing a ruckus with Dragonstone's new maester. The prince had no time for learning, his mind yearning instead for swords and adventures. The only time he liked to read a book was if it read of dragons and knights. 

He itched to ask after his wife, but he knew that Lord Monford likely knew little of her. As castellan, he had many duties to tend to. 

He found his mother abed in her chambers within the large keep that was Stone Drum, dark velvet blankets tucked around her waist as she read from a tome that was spread across her lap. She smiled magnificently when Rhaegar entered, her coloring bright and lovely. 

"My son," she sighed, pushing aside the book and holding out her arms. 

Rhaegar hugged her softly, then stood by her bedside. He might have sat, but he was anxious to see Lyanna. There would be time later to sit with his mother. "How are you?"

"Well," she replied with sincerity. "The babe agrees with Dragonstone." She settled a hand over her stomach. 

Rhaegar smiled. "I'm glad for that. A Targaryen always knows its roots." He shifted. "And Lyanna?"

Rhaella's face fell. "I'm...not sure. Most days, I'm abed with sickness. This babe is strong and likes to prove it. I've supped with Lyanna many times, but often she skips dinner."

Rhaegar frowned. He didn't like the sound of his mother's words. "And Ser Jaime?"

Rhaella shook her head. "I must admit I don't see much of him either. My maids tell me he watches Lyanna though."

 _As he should_ , Rhaegar thought with faint relief. It was Ser Jaime's sole duty at the present to guard Lyanna. 

"I'm going to see Lyanna now," Rhaegar said, "I'll come back to visit later."

Rhaella offered him another smile. "Tell her I said hello."

The disconnect between his mother and his wife confused Rhaegar. They'd forged a close relationship since the wedding, and he'd hoped that his mother's influence would encourage some happiness in Lyanna...

"Ser Barristan," Rhaegar turned to the Kingsguard, "I need you to search the grounds for my wife and Ser Jaime. I would li-"

"Are you looking for the queen, Your Grace?" A plain-faced guard stepped up from his post, his brown hair and eyes dull in the grey light of the castle. "She's down on the beach."

Rhaegar's heart jumped. "Thank you," he said to the man, before beckoning Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan to follow. Rhaegar knew all the twists and turns of Dragonstone, all the shortcuts and pathways to here, there, and everywhere. 

He strode to the large stone archway that led into an even larger balcony overlooking the water and sand. On either side of the balcony was a set of curling stone stairs that descended right on the beach, the steps dusted with sand. The salt wind whipped at Rhaegar's face without mercy as he looked out to the horizon. 

The water that met the shores was greyer than that of the port, thin and cold and frothing with sea foam. The beach was black sand, the same shade of obsidian that could be cut from Dragonmont. A square of white was spread out near the water. 

Nestled on the oversized white blanket was a small body, curled up, dark hair splayed wild. Lyanna seemed little as a bird there, shrouded in the black cloak he'd given her the day she'd left King's Landing. Rhaegar was at once angered and confused. 

"Where is Ser Jaime?" He demanded of no one, his skin flushing hot. 

As if summoned by the gods themselves, Jaime Lannister rushed onto the balcony, his green eyes pricked by minuscule pupils. His golden hair was tousled as much as his white clothes, as if he'd just woken from sleep, and his cheek was a fading yellow. 

Rhaegar felt the dragon within him awakening. "Pray tell, why is my wife _alone_ on the beach right now? You dare to shirk your duties when-"

"Ser Jason guards her door by day," Jaime interrupted him swiftly. Rhaegar didn't even have time to question what _that_ meant before Jaime murmured, "I'll get her." He swept across the balcony and down the stone stairs that fed right into the beach. 

Each step Jaime took made him sink into the black sand, his white leather boots a stark contrast to the scenery. Rhaegar wanted to follow, to edge out the arrogant young lion, but he was frozen where he stood. 

When Jaime made it to where Lyanna lay, he bent and scooped her up easily, holding her against his chest like she belonged there. When he turned and came back, it was easy to see that Lyanna was asleep, her face slack and vulnerable, paler than he'd ever seen her. 

Jaime climbed the stairs back up easily, though he seemed thoroughly tired judging by the purple crescent moons beneath his eyes. Lyanna was dressed in black leathers and a black tunic dirtied with sand and spray, his dragon cloak wrapped around her. Plastered to her throat were soiled linen strips, blotted with old blood. 

"Give her to me," Rhaegar's voice was a whip in the wind. Jaime shifted Lyanna's body to Rhaegar's cradled arms, so careful and so gentle. Lyanna's arms immediately wound about Rhaegar's neck though she was still asleep, her lips murmuring soft words and her eyes twitching beneath her lids. 

He didn't say a word as he walked off, making his way toward the royal chambers where she was assigned. The chambers had once been his to have, but with his mother situated in the queen's apartments, he'd made sure that the rooms of the Prince of Dragonstone were made ready for Lyanna's stay. 

Her room was high in Stone Drum, the highest of the bedchambers - only the Chamber of the Painted Table was above it - but it was easy to climb. Lyanna weighed little more than a child, her slight weight and sharp bones causing fear to ball in his throat. 

Her chambers were grim inside, dark curtains pulled over the arched windows to block out light, the bed large and rumpled. The air was stale, and it smelled of sadness. 

When Rhaegar kicked the door shut behind him, Lyanna flinched in his arms, but she did not wake. And then she whimpered, "Jaime."

Rhaegar's heart seemed to freeze in his chest. He stopped where he was, looking down at his wife. Her face was crumpled in distress and tears slithered down her face as she silently cried, her eyes squeezed shut. 

"Kill him, Jaime, kill him. Please..."

Hers were the pleas of desperation, no doubt dreaming of Aerys. Rhaegar's chest was sharp with pain as he continued toward the bed, each of her whimpers a knife in his heart. 

"Rhaegar," she murmured when he lay her down against the pillows. 

He glanced up immediately, but Lyanna was still asleep, calling out to him through her slumber. "Dragon," she went on quietly, her fingers twitching violently, "Rhaegar."

Rhaegar frowned and brushed the hair from her sticky skin. She smelled of salt and smoke, of sweat and sadness, and looked like she could use a meal or ten. He remembered how his mother had said Lyanna often skipped suppers. He could believe it too, looking at the extreme hollows beneath her cheekbones, the collarbones that protruded like knives. 

He covered Lyanna with her blanket before slipping out of the room. Ser Gerold and Barristan waited for his orders. 

"Ser Gerold, find Ser Jaime and tell him I'll want to speak with him. He'll dine with me tonight."

Gerold nodded and went away to perform his duty. Barristan followed Rhaegar deeper into Stone Drum where Rhaella was. When they reached her room, Pycelle was speaking to her and a young maester gently. 

But when Rhaegar entered, the Grand Maester turned and bowed. The green pallor of his seasickness had seemed to wane, leaving him pink-faced once more. 

Pycelle fingered his long white beard when he greeted Rhaegar. "Your Grace."

It was queer, Rhaegar realized, that this was one of the only times Rhaegar had spoken to Pycelle since finding Lyanna and Jaime in White Sword Tower, broken and bloody. Pycelle had more than enough maester's duties to perform around the Red Keep, and being a king was difficult business. 

He'd not spoken to Pycelle much, if at all, except through messengers and acolytes when necessary. And on the journey to Dragonstone, Pycelle had stayed within the ship's belly, green with violent seasickness. 

"How is my mother?" Rhaegar asked, sparing a smile for Rhaella. 

"Healthy as can be," Pycelle declared with great spirit. "Healthier than I've seen her since she was pregnant with you."

"Good," Rhaegar, "I'm glad to hear it."

Pycelle gathered his roll of maester's tools and powders, then hobbled away from Rhaella's bed. 

"You'll have another healthy heir for your dynasty," Pycelle announced to Rhaegar. 

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, put off by the choice of words. "Yes...," he said slowly. "I'd like you to see to Lyanna tomorrow. She's sleeping now, but perhaps in the morning."

Pycelle gave Rhaegar an odd look brimming with puzzlement, but nodded nonetheless. "Of course, Your Grace." And then he shuffled away, out of the room. 

Though perplexed, Rhaegar shook off his ill feelings, and dismissed Maester Cole and Ser Barristan from the room. He stayed and talked with his mother about anything but his wife until it was time for dinner. With the sky glistening black overhead, Ser Gerold walked Rhaegar through the castle to the Great Hall where his supper was being served. 

Ser Jaime was already seated at one of the trestle tables within, but he stood when Rhaegar approached. The shadows of the candlelight did crazy things to Jaime's bone structure, painting him as thin and hollow as Lyanna. 

"Sit," Rhaegar said shortly. 

The food was served to them in quiet, the servants shifting every which way to make their plates and pour the wine. When they were finished, Rhaegar dismissed them to the kitchens and Ser Gerold at the doors. 

In the awkward silence, Jaime asked, "Did my father come with you?"

Rhaegar clenched his jaw. "No, he has stayed behind in King's Landing. Lady Cersei will be arriving to the capital in just a few days, and he wanted to be there to receive her."

"My sister," Jaime murmured in an odd breath. 

"Yes, Lady Cersei will be moving into the Red Keep as one of Lyanna's new ladies." He momentarily wondered where Johanna and the twins from the Crownlands were, but he shook the thought away, his anger returning from earlier. He would find out about her ladies later. 

Jaime nodded and went to eat, but before his fork could pierce the meat, Rhaegar demanded coldly, "Why was it that Lyanna was left alone on the beach?"

Jaime went to answer, "I-"

Rhaegar did not let him. "I sent you with her to guard her, to keep her safe. And instead, I find you half-asleep having been gods know where, bleary-eyed and out of sorts." He lowered his voice. "I saved your head, Ser, when others might have taken it. And you repay me by abandoning my wife? Your _queen_?"

Jaime's pride seemed to flare. "I did not _abandon_ her, Your Grace, quite the opposite."

Rhaegar did not understand. "Yes, it seemed _quite the opposite_ when I had to find her passed out on the beach, by herself."

"Maester Cole gave her milk of the poppy," Jaime explained quickly. "Lyanna had another nightmare yesterday and clawed her throat open in her sleep."

" _Another_ nightmare?" Rhaegar repeated softly, his heart pounding. 

"Yes," Jaime replied. "That's why I was asleep today when you came. I sleep during the days and stay awake at nights. Queen Lyanna has vicious nightmares and often wakes sobbing. She's attempting to train herself to sleep when the sun is up, so she is awake with the moon. I've done the same so if she falls asleep to her nightmares, she can find me easily.

"We've had problems before where she has woken upset and could not find me. She woke half the castle one such night."

 _What have I done?_ Rhaegar thought uneasily. _I sent her away to deal with her nightmares alone._ His head swam. _No, not alone, the lion prowls and comforts._

"The milk of the poppy must have messed with her sleeping schedule," Jaime went on. "Ser Jason is supposed to guard her door in the days when she rests, but I don't know where he is."

Rhaegar would have to find this guard. "Her nightmares..."

"Are of that night," Jaime finished in a low voice. "King Aerys' name is often on her lips with a scream or a sob. I hear her crying Ser Jonothor and Ser Lewyn's names as well."

"I slew Jonothor," Rhaegar whispered suddenly. 

Jaime did not seem surprised. "And I Ser Lewyn."

_Yes, and my father and Wisdom Rossart too. You avenged her abuse with three heads, and I gave her one._

Rhaegar scrubbed his face with his hands, every ounce of joy he'd had earlier completely gone. He'd thought he was doing a good thing, sending her away from the broken mess of the Red Keep, but it seemed he was mistaken. 

"Was I wrong to send her here?" He blurted out, heavy with fatigue and doubt. 

Jaime eyed him warily, his cat-green eyes glittering in the low candlelight. "It...is not for me to question kings, Your Grace."

 _No_ , Rhaegar thought darkly, _you dare not question them. Only kill them._


	57. The Woes and Sorrows

_Dragonstone is a grim, grey place where only dragons may thrive_ , Ser Barristan Selmy thought to himself that morning in the Great Hall, the cold wind whipping at the glass windows. Breaking their fasts with the king at a long table were Grand Maester Pycelle, bent-backed and unassuming, and Dowager Queen Rhaella, lovely and lively in the wake of her husband's death.

Posted at the doors was Lord Commander Ser Gerold, and at opposing corners Ser Arthur and Barristan. Ser Jaime was within Stone Drum guarding Queen Lyanna's chambers, and Oswell was sleeping off his night duty.

Though the windows were high and arched in the Great Hall, the light was pale and grey, giving little life to the place. The walls were made of black stone that glistened like obsidian, and everywhere stone dragons were chiseled to menace above. _A dark day for a dark place._

In the distance, the clink of armor was distinctive, shifting steel against steel, coming closer and becoming louder, until the white of a Kingsguard came around the corner. Ser Jaime Lannister seemed even younger here than he had in King's Landing, a surprising feat.

Barristan had always thought the lion boy too young for the white cloak, untried and untested but for the battle against the Kingswood Brotherhood. But now, knowing he'd thrown himself in the literal line of fire to save Rhaegar's wife the night of the siege, Barristan thought that perhaps the white cloak did rest fine on his shoulders after all.

Behind Ser Jaime was Lyanna herself, impossibly slender, her face hollow, her eyes strangely large. She was dressed in the same rumpled clothing she'd been found in on the beach the day before, riding leathers and tunic and a cloak that belonged to her husband.

She'd been wild once, Barristan recalled, a she-wolf if there ever was one. The memory of the night he'd snuck out with her and Rhaegar to Flea Bottom came back to him - he remembered the secret passages through the Red Keep, the way Rhaegar had sang to his wife's surprise, the way Lyanna's eyes had lit up.

Now, Lyanna Stark seemed hollow and lifeless.

Rhaegar's smile was breathtaking when he saw her. "Lyanna." He stood from his table and took a few steps forward, but stopped short at her words.

"What's _he_ doing here?"

Her voice was rough as glass shards on silk, and her tone could cut steel. Those grey eyes, _Stark eyes_ , seemed alive with fire as they settled on Grand Maester Pycelle.

Rhaegar seemed as confused as everyone felt. "I've brought the Grand Maester to ensure Mother's pregnancy is still healthy." He stopped, studied his wife, swallowed. "And to examine you as well, to see if we can start laying together again."

A king had no secrets from his Kingsguards, and Rhaella was well aware of what happened between kings and queens, but Rhaegar flushed all the same.

But not Lyanna. Barristan might have guessed her to blush, stammer, avert her eyes, _something_ to belie her youth...but she did nothing of the sort.

Instead, she gritted her teeth, those fiery eyes turning from stone, to steel, to ice - so cold that it made Ser Barristan shiver in his armor - and then they slid to a point over Rhaegar's shoulder.

"You haven't told him?" Lyanna asked in a low, icy voice, her thin brow arching.

Every head turned to look at Maester Pycelle, who had been quiet as a mouse up until that point. Barristan thought he saw a spasm of fear in the old maester's eyes, but with the dim Dragonstone light, he could not be sure.

"Tell me what?" Rhaegar asked, swiveling to face Pycelle. He looked back over his shoulder at his wife. "What are you talking about?"

It was Pycelle who answered, so Rhaegar turned back. "Your Grace," Pycelle began softly, "my deepest apologies, I thought Her Grace had told you already."

Lyanna bristled, her eyes sharp and her fists clenched. She seemed ready to sob or stab the man.

"Told me what?" Rhaegar demanded impatiently. Barristan thought he could see a shade of Aerys in him - not the mad, cruel man he had become after Duskendale, but the charming boy Aerys had once been, the one that had stolen women's hearts and struck envy into men.

"Go on," Lyanna challenged coldly, "tell him. Tell your king what you told me before I left King's Landing."

The malice in her voice was palpable enough to make the hairs on Barristan's arms stand on end. The air seemed to shift in the hall, heavy and crackling, like that before a lightning storm raged.

"I thought Your Grace already knew," Pycelle tried again, fidgeting in his heavy maester's robes. "I examined Queen Lyanna fully the day of the babe's funeral, to see if the bleeding continued..."

In the silence, Rhaegar scowled. " _And_?"

"I- I am sorry, my king, but she will never bear another child."

The world seemed to quiet, like all the sound was sucked from the air and sky. No birds cawed outside, no armor clinked, no breath was drawn, no life even stirred.

Barristan had served three kings now, had been a Kingsguard for a handful of decades, and that experience had lent him an acute power: the power to sense a king's moods.

Rhaegar was all at once confused, shocked, disbelieving, and _angry_.

"What," he whispered, "did you just say?"

Pycelle also seemed to pick up on the mood. "Her Grace, Queen Lyanna, will never bear another child." Barristan was surprised the maester could get the words out through his fearful stuttering.

Rhaegar scowled, the dragon within him rising. "How is that possible?" He demanded in a booming voice.

Pycelle's eyes were as wide as saucers. "The severity of the miscarriage was too great. The trauma of its late month, the trauma of the hanging and the smoke, it wreaked havoc on her body."

"No," Rhaegar murmured, paralyzed.

"Yes," Pycelle treaded lightly, "Her Grace's body and womb were damaged irreparably."

"Irreparably," Rhaegar repeated numbly, as if he did not understand the word.

"Unfortunately, my king. The damage is done. No seed will ever take root in her body again."

"I am right here!" Lyanna exploded suddenly, tears streaming down her face. Barristan imagined it must have been just as hard to hear her fate the second time around, and with an audience no less.

Rhaegar whirled, his eyes taking her in; they shimmered purple, the king's tears unshed but brimming. Panic was easy to read in every line of his body - the clenched muscles, the hard spine, the shaking hands.

"You didn't tell me," he said breathlessly, as if he had taken a punch to the gut.

Ribbons of crystal grief fell from Lyanna's watery stare, her chin quivering. It reminded Barristan that she was sixteen, just a little girl weighed down by the burdens of a woman. "Some part of me thought you knew." She ducked her head. "I assumed it was part of the reason you sent me here."

Rhaegar shook his head. "I sent you here to _heal_ , not to rot. I...I..." He could not seem to get his words out.

"I'm sorry," Lyanna whispered.

Rhaegar turned faster than the crack of a whip, pinning Pycelle with his hard dragon's stare. "How are you certain of her...condition? How do you know that my seed will never quicken in her womb?"

In this reply, Pycelle was confident, which bode well for the bent maester. Sniveling uncertainty would never be favored in Rhaegar's Court.

"I have seen this in women before, Your Grace, have examined such conditions since I was only an acolyte at the Citadel, studying under greater maesters. They teach us what to look for. I have been Grand Maester for almost forty years, have served your House since the reign of King Aegon V.

"I have cared for your own queen mother when she lost her babes, but none so damaged her like _this_. Miscarriage so traumatic and late in pregnancy is detrimental to a woman's body, Your Grace, and that is especially true in Queen Lyanna's case. The stress, the trauma, it has left her womb unable of ever quickening another babe."

Lyanna was crying freely now, but did her utmost to bear her grief silently. Rhaegar, however, seemed stuck in the limbo between outrage and utter shock.

"The baby that we burned and buried was the last we'll ever have," Lyanna said. "The _only_ I'll have ever carried."

Something bloomed in Rhaegar's face then, an epiphany, a realization. "The prophecy," he said, straightening. "The dragon must have three heads."

Lyanna grimaced. "The prophecy? _That's_ what you choose to bring up right now? An ancient prophecy with no legitimacy?"

"A _true_ prophecy," Rhaegar corrected her angrily. "A prophecy whose legitimacy is lent by your fortune. Maggy the Frog-"

"Is a conniving, lying bitch," she finished in a hiss. "Nothing more. All she wanted to do was sell a young girl lies."

"But-"

"But nothing, Rhaegar," Lyanna cried. "These are real problems! Not obstacles to stand in the way of dreams."

"The prince that was promised," Rhaegar blurted, "the song of ice and fire."

Lyanna's tears left her face glistening. "I am not your _ice_ , Rhaegar, no matter how much you want me to be. I'm just a girl, a girl who will never bear another child for the rest of her days."

"You are my _ice_ ," Rhaegar insisted. "You are a Stark of Winterfell."

"Your _ice_ is just symbolism," she threw back, "and I am not the only girl in this world with winter in her veins. You're reaching, Rhaegar, but you need to face facts." She roughly wiped at her face with a small hand.

Rhaegar's tears were beautiful on his cheeks. "Is there nothing we can do? Nothing we can send for to help my seed quicken in her?" He asked aloud, turning to face Pycelle. "Some herbs from Essos, a brew, a potion, _anything_?"

Pycelle shook his head, the chains around his neck clinking. "No, Your Grace. The Citadel can help many things, but a barren woman is not one of them. There are no herbs on this earth that can reverse this affliction. The gods have made their decision, and it is for us to bear."

" _Me to bear_ , you mean," Lyanna spat venomously. "I'm the one who bore and bled that child, and I'm the one who is damaged."

The dragon in Rhaegar's eyes was itching to come alive as he turned back to his wife slowly. "If only you had listened," he snapped, sharper than Barristan had ever heard him before, "if you had only gone to Dragonstone the first time, _like I wanted you to_ , then maybe, _just maybe_ , our child would still thrive in your belly."

His words were cruel and cold, but they might as well have been a hot whip for all the anguish they caused Lyanna. Her face crumpled and a fresh round of sobs tore from her throat, sobs that were heartbreaking and difficult to hear. At her side, Ser Jaime flinched.

Rhaegar's face dimmed and he looked as if he wished he could have taken his harsh words right back. Behind him, Queen Rhaella sat in shock, her hands covering her mouth, incredulous at her son's casual malice.

"I was stupid," Lyanna cried, looking up defiantly, "I was naive, and I should have gone like you wanted me to. I should have listened to you. But I loved your family, and I couldn't leave them to their tortures alone.

"But I have paid for that _stupid_ decision a hundred times over, leaving myself with an everlasting punishment that can never be reversed. You could not know how sorry I am for what I've done. Not only to myself, but to you and our daughter as well. I have a hole in my heart that will never be filled."

"I'm sorry." Rhaegar strode forward quickly, taking Lyanna in his arms before she could object or meet him halfway. His hold on her was perhaps too strong for such a slender girl, but she took it in stride. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chanted into her hair, again and again and again.

The whole room watched in heavy silence as the king and queen embraced. No one wanted to address the elephant in the room - for what was a queen if she could not give children?

"I'm so sorry," Rhaegar repeated, "I didn't mean what I said." He choked on his grief. "What do you want me to do? Name it, and I'll do it. I'll do anything, _anything_."

Lyanna whispered, but her words echoed. "Let me go home."

Rhaegar stiffened around her, fire turning to ice. He looked up and met Barristan's eyes briefly over Lyanna's shoulder before drawing back from her. "What?"

"Let me go home," she said again.

Rhaegar stumbled back two steps. "Home."

"Winterfell," she whimpered as he stepped back a few more paces.

"But," Rhaegar murmured, "your place is with me. Your _home_ is with me."

Lyanna gave her husband the saddest look Ser Barristan had ever seen, one that seemed to say _we both know a queen has no place if a king has no children_.

"Let me see my family again," she whispered. When Rhaegar stood stiff in shock, she ghosted forward until she was right in front of him, and then she went to her knees at his feet, sitting on her heels like some lowly subject.

" _Please_ ," she pled with tears running down her face and neck, "let me go to Winterfell. Let me see my father and brothers again, let me be there when my brother's child is born. Let me see the sky snow and feel the cold winds blow."

She whimpered in the back of her throat before continuing, "Let me see my godswood again, let me kneel at a real heart tree and pray to my gods, the _Old Gods_."

She turned her face up, small and lovely and sad on the floor. "Please, Your Grace, let me go home."

Rhaegar blinked, taken by shock at the title, staring down at his little queen with heartbroken confusion. Barristan could tell it had been difficult for her to call her husband _Your Grace_ , but she forced herself through it in order to appeal to her king.

Barristan admired her for that.

"Don't ask me for that," Rhaegar breathed. "Not that."

"You said _anything_ ," she reminded him in a low voice. "Please..."

Rhaegar's face was raw with anguish as he stared down at her for two full minutes, never saying a word. And then it was as if something snapped within him before he jerked out of Lyanna's way and made a fast path out of the Great Hall, leaving her behind him, crying. Rhaella immediately went to her, crouching and pulling the girl against her chest.

It took Barristan only a second to follow his king from the room, alongside Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur, through the castle and all the way to Rhaegar's chambers where he locked himself within.

He did not emerge for three days.

* * *

It was as if days and nights held no meaning anymore, one bleeding into the next, every second a miserable moment of existence for Rhaegar Targaryen. He sat in his chambers for gods knew how long, alone and quiet, never answering the knocks at his door, not taking meals or indulging in baths. Baths reminded him too much of her...

The only times he moved were to drink from his pitcher of water, to use the privy, and to sleep. But sleep was just as sorrowful as the waking hours, his head empty of _those dreams_ , the ones that used to be filled with his and Lyanna's children, dark and silver and silver. He'd dreamed of them every day for months, but the day he'd found out about Lyanna's...affliction was the day the dreams stopped.

It was a heartwrenching, painful sign.

 _"Her Grace, Queen Lyanna, will never bear another child."_ Pycelle's voice was a piercing agitation in his brain, though his anger was misplaced. It was not the Grand Maester's fault that Lyanna's body had suffered so, that she had lost their babe. _That_ death lay at his father's door. It all led back to Aerys.

Rhaegar clenched his jaw through the tears that fell, his eyes unfocused as he stared out the window to the dismal sky. If Lyanna could not bear children, she was not his _ice_ , and if she was not his _ice_ , where did that leave them? 

Her being his _ice_ , and him her _fire_ , was everything their union had been built on, torn away by the horrors of one night. It took one night to tear down absolutely every stone they had built in their relationship, and all that was left was a pile of confusion and rubble.

 _Where do we go from here?_ He feared the answer that he could not bring himself to say out loud.

It was on the third day of his isolation that Rhaegar stood, legs shaking, to open the door. Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur were posted outside. "Get me my mother."

Rhaella came a few minutes later, lovely and slight in purple silk, her eyes full of compassion and sadness. She took her son in her arms immediately, holding him against her as she had when he was young. "My sweet love," she sighed, "I am so sorry."

"Everything is wrong," he whispered. "I can't let her go, Mother, I can't."

Rhaella stepped back to hold his face between her hands. Her thumbs swiped at his cheeks. "I've lost many of my babes through the years, but you were my first...and if I had lost you, I would have been mad with grief. Lyanna is...suffering. And now, to know she will never give you another child, will never hold her babe in her arms, will never see it grow..."

"I wish I could go back," he said sadly. "I wish I would have killed Father myself, sooner."

Rhaella frowned. "Don't say that. You may wish for Lyanna's body to be healed, but no man should be a kinslayer. There is no one more accursed."

Though he knew she was right, Rhaegar could not help the dark, violent fantasies of killing his father that filled his head. In the absence of his good dreams, he fantasized of killing his father a thousand and one times, every which way, slow and fast, with knives and poison, his own bare hands...

"What should I do?" He just wanted to be young again, before the world had turned dark and dirty, before he was a man, when he was just a boy with a father whose mind was still sound and a mother who had not suffered tragedies.

Rhaella seemed to struggle to find the right words to give her son. "I would not speak ill of Lyanna."

"I don't want you to," Rhaegar replied. "It's just...I am a new king, and she a new queen, and we have no children. I have no heirs but for Viserys, and the babe in your belly. If something were to happen, gods forbid, and we were swept from the world, the throne would pass to Robert Baratheon. I can't let that happen, and the prophecy...the kingdoms..."

His mother grimaced. "It is a queen's duty to give her king sons and heirs, children to forge a dynasty. A queen that cannot bear children cannot do her duty by you or the realm." He could tell it hurt her to say the words.

"Duty," Rhaegar repeated, lowering his voice. "And what of love?" His heart squeezed around the knife lodged inside it.

Rhaella blew out a breath. "Love is sweet, my boy, but it comes second for kings and queens, and is a rare feat besides." She swept her palm over his cheek. "That young girl has suffered more than enough for one lifetime."

Rhaegar hung his head, grimacing against the spasm of pain in his chest. "I need to speak to my ship's captain."

Rhaella nodded, going to leave, but turned at the last second. She produced a scrolled message, sliding it into his hands. "A raven came from King's Landing. Ser Arthur would not let Maester Pycelle disturb you with it."

Rhaegar took it, studying the seal that represented the Hand of the king. His mother came to kiss his cheek before she swept from the room, leaving the door open behind her. "Arthur," Rhaegar called out.

Arthur appeared in the doorway instantly, his amythest eyes dim in the daylight. "Your Grace?"

"Bring Ser Jaime to me."

When Arthur left, Rhaegar picked apart the letter's seal, unfurling the parchment to read the words from Tywin Lannister. Lady Cersei had apparently arrived to the capital earlier than expected, with a host from House Lannister's personal household, and a train of belongings from the Rock. She awaited her duty as Lyanna's lady.

Rhaegar squeezed the letter in his fist, dropping it in a crumpled ball to the floor. He didn't have time to think of Cersei Lannister waiting in King's Landing. It was hard though, to put it out of his mind, when Ser Jaime Lannister, twin to Cersei, appeared.

He was tall and slim, golden-haired and green-eyed, every bit as beautiful as his sister. The yellow and green of his fading bruise only brought out his coloring, bright coloring that was stark against his white armor. Two golden lions clasped the white cloak to his shoulders.

Rhaegar turned away from him and went to sit in his desk's chair, steepling his hands. Jaime closed the door, then drifted closer.

"Lyanna has asked to go North," Rhaegar began unnecessarily. It had not escaped his notice who had been privy to his and Lyanna's fight in the Great Hall days ago.

"Yes, Your Grace," Jaime whispered.

"If she goes, you go," Rhaegar said without preamble. Jaime said not a word, nor moved a muscle. Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. "No matter what was revealed days ago, she and I still pledged vows to one another before gods and men. Her life is important, and would be in your hands in the North."

Jaime nodded seriously, his green eyes strangely bright in the dark room, like a spot of life in an otherwise barren wasteland. "Of course, Your Grace, I would do anything to protect her."

Rhaegar clenched his jaw. "You've proven that to be true," he said quietly.

The spark in Jaime's eyes flamed, but he said nothing. He stood straight and narrow, staring down his king, his very core rigid as Valyrian steel. The lion was young and arrogant, self-assured and full of false chivalry at times, but if there was one thing he was good for, it was Lyanna.

Rhaegar looked away. "Leave me."

Jaime swiveled on one foot, and strode to the door, but just as he had reached for the handle, Rhaegar's voice sounded out, cold and curious. "Do you love her?"

Rhaegar watched Jaime's armored back, watching the way it stiffened and straightened. Jaime stood frozen for a few long moments before turning back, his eyes wide and his jaw clamped shut. He did not say a thing, but he absolutely did not have to.

Rhaegar could read the answer to his question in every line of the lion's face and body - from the fear glinting in Jaime's eyes, to the way his lips pressed together tightly, to the hand shaking on the handle of the door, to the stiff posture. The answer was written all over Jaime Lannister.

"Go. Now," Rhaegar said slowly with burning ice in his voice, the dragon inside him awakening.

Ser Jaime tucked his tail and obeyed.

It was two more days of thinking before Rhaegar went to see his wife, high in Stone Drum. Her three ladies were gathered around her, chattering and giggling, but Lyanna sat staring at the wall, unaware of their conversation.

When Rhaegar appeared in her doorway, the talk ceased. The three ladies stood and curtsied, but Lyanna sat and stared, her eyes just as red and sad as they had been five days before. It made the ache in his chest even more pronounced.

"My ladies, if I could speak with my wife alone."

They bowed their heads and all but ran from the room, leaving behind a broken marriage and more than enough tension to choke on. Rhaegar strode to one of the chairs left unoccupied and lowered himself into it, looking at Lyanna.

She was so alarmingly thin, he guessed he could wrap his hands around her waist and overlap fingers. Her face was gaunt and pallid and tired, her eyes a deep, dark grey. _My son's eyes would have been that color_ , he thought sadly.

His voice cut through the silence like a sword. "I will let you go to Winterfell."

Her eyes flashed up, tears welling over the grey. "What?"

Rhaegar worked his jaw, his breath coming harder to draw. He knew it would be difficult to make this decision, and it wasn't any easier afterward. "I will let you go see your family. I've already sent a raven to Winterfell informing them of your arrival."

Lyanna's lips parted in disbelief and her hands curled around the rests of the chair. "Truly? This is not some trick?"

He scowled, dropping his eyes. "I would never trick you, Lyanna."

Her cry was a shudder of breath, broken by her rasping throat. "Thank you." He could tell by the sound that her chin was quivering, that tears once again marked her skin. Would there ever be another day where her heart would not be broken? Would it ever heal?

"You will leave on the morrow, on _The Dread_. It will take you all the way to White Harbor, where you will obtain horses and provisions for the rest of the journey to Winterfell." Tears sent tendrils of aching pain through his throat, threatening to reveal his hate for the entire plan.

The anguish rising within him was as quick and powerful as a tidal wave, so he stood from his chair and went to leave before he could change his mind and break her heart one more time.

"Rhaegar," she called after him softly. He froze and turned to look over his shoulder. She was beautiful and broken and sad curled up in that chair. "I'm sorry."

He nodded, frowning. How had everything gone to shit so quickly? "As am I." He turned and left.

That night he dreamed that they were back at Harrenhal, back at their beginning. His dream was full of _her_ \- Lyanna in mismatched armor, and her bruised ribs, her dancing in his arms at the feast, her stubborn face as he set a crown of winter roses on her lap. It was the first good night's sleep he'd had in almost a week, and when he woke, it was all shattered.

* * *

The morning she left was cold and bleak, a light rain falling from the heavens as the last of Lyanna's and Ser Jaime's things were loaded onto the black ship. The sky was a pale grey, streaked with smoke and clouds, the colors of her House. It was a sign from her gods.

Rhaegar could not discern what Lyanna was wearing for the dragon cloak wrapped tight around her body, the hood thrown over her head, the red three-headed dragon flashing on her back. She was saying her goodbyes to Rhaella and Viserys, the latter of which was crying into her legs, begging her not to go.

Viserys' cries only served to upset Lyanna further, and soon, Rhaella had to pull the boy away. The captain came up to Rhaegar, tipping his head so that rainwater fell down the smooth surface. "We're ready to depart, Your Grace."

Panic rose hard in him, and the urge to call the entire thing off was strong, but he swallowed it down. "Very good. Get her to White Harbor safely and there will be a significant amount of gold in your future."

The captain nodded. "Of course, of course." He spun to bark orders at the crew assembling on deck.

Across the way, Lyanna stared at him, looking miserable and mournful, hopeful and broken all in one. She clutched the edges of his cloak tight around her as a cold wind swept around them.

It was time.

He walked to her like a man walking to his death, dread and sorrow rooted strong in him. He was painfully aware of all those watching their exchange, of the eyes crawling over their skin. And it seemed Lyanna was, too, her eyes flicking back and forth, back and forth.

He grasped her chin between his thumb and index finger, gently forcing her to look into his eyes. Hers were clear and grey like ice and steel, wide and innocent on her thin face. Rhaegar pushed back the awkward feeling of uncertainty threatening to freeze him and bent forward to kiss her lips. They had lain together twice, had touched each other slick and naked, had kissed and fought and traveled the realm together.

 _If she's not supposed to be mine, then why does she set me on fire?_ He thought with intense resentment.

When they pulled apart, Lyanna dropped her eyes, a flush spreading over her pale skin. Rhaegar squeezed his eyes closed. "Have a safe trip."

Lyanna looked up, giving him a small nod. "And you, too." She bit her lip uncertainly. "When you go back to King's Landing." He was leaving Dragonstone in a few days' time on _The Pride of Driftmark_ to go back to the capital, back to his throne.

The ship's horn blew suddenly in a loud cry, making them flinch. _This is it_ , he realized, _she's about to leave._ Hysteria was a terrifying thing within him, sending his heart pounding in his chest, making his breath short and thin. Heat swam to his cheeks and neck.

Lyanna gave him a small, sad smile before stepping back and walking down the plank to the deck. It was a disturbing echo of the last time she had departed from him, though that time had been a hopeful destination for healing and recovery, and this...

Rhaegar's anxious panic caused him to go numb and blind for a few moments, and when his mind came to once more, _The Dread_ was floating out of Dragonstone's port, cutting through the Blackwater. Though the ship was painted all black, it wasn't hard for him to see Lyanna running to the edge, grasping on as she searched him out.

He could _feel_ the exact moment her eyes found him, could feel them like the cold kiss of a knife to the throat. The ship was gaining speed now, going faster with the wind, and it seemed as small as his thumb in the distance.

He struggled to fight down the ever-rising panic once more, his senses tingling like this was _all wrong_. The wind whipped at him hard from all sides, swirling his silver hair into his eyes and mouth, making him flick it away impatiently. From the periphery of his vision, he saw his mother and brother and Kingsguards watching him, waiting...

He felt paralyzed, frozen there, the rain pelting his skin and his feet rooted in the ground of his ancestors. All around was the sharp smell of smoke and salt and rain. Bile was poisonous in his throat and his hands shook violently. The ship was so small now, he could barely see the white of Ser Jaime's armor in the distance.

A single tear slid hot down Rhaegar's cheek to land on his neck, mixing with the rain, as he remembered the first time he met Lyanna, a wild young thing with fire in her soul, clad in steel and honor. Inside his chest, his heart tore clean in half. 

_I'm in love with you_ , he thought desperately, just as _The Dread_ disappeared completely off the grey-and-black horizon. The rain continued to fall.


	58. Voices

**SEVEN MONTHS LATER**

The sky was a sheet of gold and the sun a blazing ruby as the day died over Winterfell. 

Twilight was bitter cold, the evening winds rising like the swift hand of some frozen demon. All around, thin sheets of snow covered the ground white, but here and there were bare patches where shafts of golden light were thrown across the forest floor by the hue of a dying sun. It was eerily still, all the animals either hiding or gone, save for the murder of ravens that perched above on tree limbs, peering down with their curious black eyes. 

Lyanna clutched her cloak tighter about her, stalking through the godswood with quick, quiet feet, her breath streaming like a pale banner. Her surroundings were filled with towering trees, snow-crusted floor, the chill of twilight, the sharp smell of home. But there was no sound. 

The godswood was still in the dying light, the very picture of serenity with only the birds and the trees about to stand sentinel. Lyanna knew better. 

Somewhere behind her a twig snapped, loud as a warhorn. Her heart jolted in her chest and she whirled, her eyes searching for the intruder. Though all she saw were trees and snow and more trees, she could _feel_ him like a wolf would prey. Only this time, she was not the hunter. 

_He's close_ , she thought with a sudden rush of exhilarating terror. 

"Lyanna!" The voice was sickly sweet, mockingly playful, tinged with something dangerous that made her pulse go mad. "Come out, come out wherever you are!"

Her blood chilled in her veins at the closeness of his voice. She knew these woods like the back of her hand, but there was only so far she could run, could hide. His steps were loud somewhere in the distance, crunching leaves and snow like they were the bones of his enemies. 

Lyanna ran. 

The wind slapped her face as she sped through the forest, her boots cracking the spines of the fallen leaves that littered the forest floor. She stopped at a clearing, looked around wildly, and went left on the worn path. 

"Lyanna!" Her heart nearly stopped; his voice echoed queerly off the trees that closed around her. "Oh, Lyanna, come out before I find you."

The thrill of the chase had her heart pounding dangerously in her chest, made fear dance up her throat, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She spared a look behind her and saw nothing. 

But she knew he was nearby. 

"I know you're close," he sang out, a smile in his voice. 

Raw anticipation crawled up her skin, making her cheeks blaze. Up ahead, Winterfell's heart tree was a safe haven in the shades of ruby and pearl. She made a mad dash for it, edging around the large black pool at its base before shimmying up the bone white trunk to hide amongst its leaves. 

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Jaime Lannister sang again, too close now. His voice rang out from below. Lyanna's heart double-thumped as he crept closer. 

She gripped tight to the bone white branch she was straddling and leaned forward to look down. Ten or so feet below her dangling legs was Jaime himself, stalking across the godswood, unaware that she hid straight above. 

He was a beacon in white - boots and breeches and doublet, a velvet cloak falling down his back; his hair and eyes were the only colors about him, hair as golden as the dying sun, eyes as green as a rose stem. 

"Lyanna," Jaime called out again in a mischievous voice, the top of his golden head turning as he searched. 

Very quietly, Lyanna began to scrape off the snow that was piled atop the weirwood branches, gathering it in her hands to form a monstrous snowball as big as her head. It kept falling apart, the snow too thin, but she packed it hard enough that it would perform its duty without problems. She just had to wait for Jaime to circle back, right below her feet so she could drop it on his golden head. 

Jaime made a circuit of the area, calling out for her, searching, before stalking back beneath the tree, unwittingly placing himself in her line of fire. When he finally drifted below her, his head _right there_ , Lyanna dropped her snowball, gasping in delight when it smashed and spattered all over his head and face. 

Jaime jumped and cursed, the snow falling into his eyes. Grasping the opportunity at his distraction, Lyanna jumped the ten feet down from the heart tree's limb to the godswood's ground, a sharp pain shooting up her right ankle. 

She ignored it. Quick as a cat, she raced away from the heart tree, fleeing through the godswood as fast as she could, the wind tearing at her hair, the exhilaration filling her with adrenaline. It wasn't long though before she heard him behind her, calling out, cursing, growling. 

Her laughter echoed through the forest, filling the air with her joy. She dodged a tree, raced around a bend, and found the foot-worn path that led back to the castle. 

Lyanna spared a look over her shoulder and immediately regretted it. Jaime was gaining on her, his face fierce, his legs pumping. Terror spiked her heart rate. She turned back around, too late to dodge the thick root jutting up from the ground, and sprawled to the ground in a painful heap. 

"Oh shit," Jaime cursed, stopping. "Lyanna, are you alright?"

She grimaced and sat up, examining her palms which were scraped raw and welling up. "Fine," she grumbled, wiping her bloody hands across the snow until it was dark with crimson and her wounds were cleaned and cold. The ankle she'd hurt dropping from the tree throbbed worse. 

"You're sure?" He asked again, crouching by her and taking one of her hands in his own to twist and turn. 

"Yes," she answered, pulling her hand back and circling her ankle around. It stung, but it'd be fine as long as she kept off it for a day or two. "I twisted my ankle though."

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Come on," he pulled her up with one strong arm. "Get on my back, I'll carry you to the castle."

Jaime crouched before her and allowed her to wrap her legs around his waist, her arms coiled lazily around his collarbones as he took her about the thighs. He smelled of sunshine and woods. 

Their trek back to the castle was easier going than their game had been. They always played too rough, someone inevitably ending up with a bruise or a cut, and even once a black eye where Benjen had thrown a snowball with a rock core at Jaime's face. 

A sudden wind lashed at their cheeks. "Fuck, it's cold," Jaime grumbled, hiking Lyanna higher up on his back. 

She chuckled, taking a deep breath of the clean air. "You've lived at Winterfell for nearly seven months now, you big baby."

"It's brutal out here," he griped, clutching her leather-clad legs tighter. "I don't know how you can stand it."

She smiled. "I was made for it."

And it was true. No matter who she had married, what babe she had carried and bled, where she had been, she was first and foremost a Stark. And like wolves, Starks thrived in grim times when all the other beasts and creatures littered the land like dead. Winter was always coming one way or another, and Starks were built to endure. 

The bustling of Winterfell beckoned them inside the thick castle walls. The sounds of life were music to Lyanna's ears - the steel song of the smithy, the steady hum of conversation, the clattering deep from within the kitchens. The air was filled with the smell of roasting meat, making her mouth water for supper. 

In the yard, Benjen was practicing shooting arrows at a faraway target. The bow he used was impressively made, wrought of a gleaming black substance that caught the fading sunlight magnificently. 

"Hey," Lyanna shouted angrily, "Ben, that's mine!" She slid down from Jaime's back and left him behind, marching toward her younger brother. 

Benjen ignored her cry, loosing the arrow he'd nocked so that it whizzed forward, embedding itself deep within the target. "Your bow shoots better than mine!" He whined. 

As well it should. The gleaming black longbow had been a gift from Rhaegar for her seventeenth name day, sent with its own special entourage of riders from King's Landing to Winterfell several months ago. 

The gift had arrived three days after her name day, and when she'd opened it, she had almost ridden back with the knights to the capital. The longbow was beautiful and expertly made, equipped with a back quiver made of bleached white leather and a dozen weirwood arrows that were tipped with obsidian heads. 

But it was the bow itself that wrenched her heart, curved, slim, and gleaming black, it was made of dragonbone and shot arrows far faster than crossbow and bow alike. It was so beautiful and deadly, just like her dragon, she nearly rode across the realm just to see him again. 

Instead, she'd tried composing a dozen different letters expressing her gratitude to Rhaegar, some formal, some not, but none had ever come out the way she wanted, and in the end, she'd never sent a message to him at all. The day she left Dragonstone seven months earlier was the last time she had seen or heard from him. 

It was easy not to think about her dragon when she was deep in the North, immersed in home and family and snows and _Stark_. Here there were no silver-haired beauties, no little dragons, no haunting purple eyes, no fiery reds. Each day she found herself thinking on her life in King's Landing less and less, the months fading into one another, until finally all she knew was home. 

Nights, though, were different. When the skies turned black, and she was alone in her chambers, her mind always went back to Rhaegar, no matter how hard she tried to think on other things. It was inevitable and though at first she tried to fight it, now she accepted it, easing into her dreams of him with something akin to eagerness. 

"Lya!" A different voice called, deeper and more authoritative. Brandon leaned in the doorway to the main keep, clad in dark leather and furs, his smirk tilted and arrogant. He twirled a dagger through his fingers with menacing effortlessness. "Your lord sends for you."

Lyanna rolled her eyes at his theatrics and limped past her oldest brother, starting for the stairs within that led up to Ned's solar. Brandon was quick to follow, a dark shadow at her back. 

"Playing with your lion again?" He teased, chuckling to himself, tilting his dagger so that the tip of his blade scraped annoyingly against the stone wall. 

"Shut up, you stupid," she snapped, climbing the stairs faster despite the twang of pain in her ankle. She almost wished she'd had Jaime carry her up the stairs; she might have asked Brandon to do so, but that would lead to questions which would lead to ridicule or a scolding, neither of which she wanted. 

"Touchy, touchy," he laughed, digging his fingers into the ticklish spot at the back of her ribs. 

She flinched and giggled hysterically, pulling away. "Go annoy your wife," she yelled as she bolted for the lord's solar at the top of the landing. "And give the baby a kiss for me."

His laughter was a sound she never wanted to forget.

Brandon, Ashara, and their little infant daughter had come to Winterfell from Starfall months ago at Ned's behest after the death of their lord father. Rickard Stark had died not three weeks after Lyanna's return home, his heart having failed one glum afternoon. Ned had immediately written to their lost brother after Lyanna had given up Brandon's whereabouts, and a month later they were riding in, bearing the purple standards of House Dayne. 

Her father's death had wrenched her heart wide open, like pouring oil on fire, and if not for the presence of all three of her brothers, she likely would have withered away into a shell of nothing. 

Having Ashara and Brandon around had been awkward at first, their presence a constant reminder of the wrongs and shame that had been dealt to everyone. Lady Catelyn had been nothing but kind and courteous, even going so far as to allow her new baby boy Robb to sleep in the same room as Arra, Brandon's girl. 

But Catelyn and Ashara had never become close, even though Lyanna had formed deep friendships with both ladies. Catelyn, Lyanna learned, was deeply loyal and was always there to listen and talk, becoming the sister that she had never had. And Ashara was a wild spirit, akin to Lyanna's own, a twin soul if there ever was one and fiercely devoted to those she loved. Lyanna could scarcely think of her life without either woman anymore. 

At the end of the hall, inside her father's solar, Ned was sat reading letters, his eyes narrowed as he pored over a curling parchment. Maester Luwin was busy writing in one corner, his head of pale hair bent over. When she entered though, both men stopped. 

"My queen," Luwin said courteously, giving her one of his gentle smiles as he stood and bowed. 

"Maester Luwin," she returned warmly. Lyanna had learned quickly that there was no changing how the new maester of Winterfell addressed her, no matter how familiar they became over the course of her time home. 

Ned, though, didn't stand or speak. Without saying a word, he picked up an opened letter with a cracked black seal and handed it over the desk. 

Lyanna frowned at his behavior, sat in one of the chairs, and took the letter from him with shaky hands. Her eyes scanned the words quickly, her heart thumping in her chest oddly as she processed the news. 

Dowager Queen Rhaella had given birth to her babe at Dragonstone, a girl named Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen. The babe was healthy and beautiful, and in honor of her birth, there would be a three day tourney held in King's Landing, following which would be the official coronation ceremony of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark as king and queen of Westeros. 

"They wrote my name," Lyanna whispered aloud in puzzled wonderment, her eyes glued to the letters. 

"You _are_ his wife," Ned pointed out with a frown, studying her. 

She glanced up, giving him a dull look. "Yes, what a wife I am with my broken womb."

"Lya," Ned began softly, his grey eyes sad. He always gave her that same look when her "condition" was mentioned, one of heartbroken disbelief. 

"Don't," she said sharply, looking back down at the letter. "It says you must come to the coronation to swear your fealty to the new king."

Ned nodded. "I must. Shall I swear my fealty to my queen right here, right now?"

Lyanna snorted. "You're so stupid." She squeezed her eyes shut, her mind conjuring a silver image almost instantly. "Seven months," she murmured. _Seven months...I can't believe it's been so long since I've seen his face._

"We'll have to leave within the week," Ned told her, shuffling through his letters absentmindedly. "The tourney is in three weeks. We can make it to the capital in two if we don't ride with a large party."

Lyanna did not answer, so focused on what it would be like to set foot in the Red Keep once more, to smell the stinking city air, to see _him_ again. 

"Lya," Ned prompted gently. 

Her eyes flashed open and she looked at her brother, so kind and caring, a gentle soul. "I'm taking Benjen with me," she said suddenly. She couldn't bear to ever leave him behind again. "Brandon and Ashara, too." Brandon, her wild wolf, would keep her heart safe in King's Landing, and Ashara would be her companion. 

Ned nodded as if he'd expected no less. "I have an heir now. Little Robb can be the Stark in Winterfell for the time being. Catelyn will stay with him here. And after the tourney and coronation, home once more."

_And will I be coming back home with you?_

Despite the dread sinking in her soul, Lyanna smiled at the mention of Ned's new son. Robb was a vivacious babe, full of laughter and smiles, even quicker to scream or cry; he was like Brandon in that way with his mirth and his rages. 

Brandon's daughter, Arra, on the other hand was a peaceful babe, dark-haired and purple-eyed, the very image of her mother, but with Ned's soft soul. 

Lyanna was full of nothing but love for the two little Starkling babes, but there was a hole in her chest, a bruise where her heart used to be that pulsed painfully every time the little ones kicked happily or gurgled or showed her a smile. 

It made her soul ache for her own lost daughter. _Rhaegar and I made that baby together, the night I gave him my maidenhood. I was going to name it Rhaella if it was a girl. Rhaella for its grandmother..._

"I'll be sure to tell Jaime we're leaving soon," Lyanna blurted abruptly, standing so quick the chair skidded back. Luwin flinched at the noise. She walked fast to the door but Ned's voice stopped her. 

"Everything will work out the way it's meant to, Lya."

She squeezed her eyes closed, tears running down her cheeks. She hadn't cried in several months, not since her father had passed and they'd put his bones in the crypts beneath Winterfell where a statue in his likeness stood guard. 

"Lya," Ned whispered, softer this time. She could hear the pity in his voice, pity for the plight Aerys had given her with his noose. 

She could almost hear Maggy the Frog croaking in her head then, like it was some demon's voice conjured to torture her. _"Your three children will be the greatest that the world has ever seen, your firstborn the Promised One. And their blood will freeze and flame with that of ice and fire."_

If Lyanna ever saw the lying bitch crone again, she would ravage her so thoroughly, they would think it was the wolves that got her. 

"Everything will be alright," Ned promised again, his voice stronger at her back. 

Lyanna scowled. _Don't make promises, dearest Ned_ , she thought as she strode away from the room, _that only the gods may keep._


	59. A King's Plight

The midday sun burned through the crystalline dome, throwing shafts of rainbow light across the glittering marble floors. The Great Sept of Baelor was awash in screaming color, painting every single worshiper within in one of the seven colors of light. But none more so beautifully than King Rhaegar Targaryen, who knelt at his babe's resting place silently, the rainbows playing off his silvery hair so that he seemed the Warrior reborn in shades of ruby and amythest, yellow diamond and topaz, sapphire and emeralds. 

He ducked his head one final time then climbed to his feet, bone-tired and aching for sleep. Rhaegar looked down sadly at the onyx box lying beneath the iron-latticed vent, frowning. _Rest in peace, my little girl_ , he prayed internally, _may you be reborn a dragon in the heavens and soar above us all for eternity._

"My king," a voice called gently. 

Rhaegar's head snapped up and his eyes found Cersei Lannister, glowing and staring straight at him from several feet away. "My lady," he returned breathlessly, caught off guard. 

Cersei shifted and put herself beneath a beam of color. The crystal sept did magnificent things for her beauty, transforming her hair into a shrine of gold and rainbows, setting her emerald necklace to sparkling like living wildfire. The gown she wore was of pale green silk, sprinkled with glittering sunlight and edged with golden lace. 

"I hope I did not disturb you," she said hesitantly, ghosting forward a step, "or your prayers."

Rhaegar shook his head lightly, shaking off the morose cloud that seemed to hang above him. "I was just finished actually."

Cersei nodded and dropped her eyes to the floor. "Is that where your babe lay?"

Rhaegar's heart pounded as if he were about to share some secret. He loathed speaking about his lost babe with anyone who was not his family. "Yes it is," he replied slowly, dragging out his words. 

Cersei drifted closer so that she stood next to him, bringing with her a cloud of intoxicating perfume. "It was a girl, was it not? A little princess."

Rhaegar gritted his teeth. "Yes," he murmured. He cast his eyes down once more, a sick combination of gloom and misery twisting in his gut. 

"Did she have a name?" Cersei wondered, looking up at him with soft eyes that shimmered like the emeralds around her throat. 

"Rhaella," he answered back with a tone like iron. He still remembered the day Lyanna had told him she wanted to name their babe after his queen mother should it be a girl, the clarity of the memory so strong he could swear he smelled Lyanna's skin. 

Or was that Cersei?

"A beautiful name," Cersei allowed, the corners of her lips quirking up. "You must love your mother greatly."

 _It was Lyanna's idea_ , he thought, _she wanted to honor my mother._ Instead he said, "I do, of course. I was just going to visit her actually." He shifted away a few inches. 

"Oh," Cersei intoned, "I meant to visit with her earlier, but I was held up speaking with the cooks about the foods that will be served at the tourney feasts and, of course, after your coronation."

As the Hand's daughter, Cersei was often delegated certain tasks about the Red Keep, mainly focusing on rallying the ladies of Court, planning feasts, sometimes even sitting on small council meetings. And now that his mother had come back from Dragonstone with little Daenerys, Cersei served as a companion to her as well. 

"I'm sure whatever you have planned will be lovely," Rhaegar said absently, his mind focused on the coronation. _Lyanna will be crowned beside me, so help me gods._

Cersei's eyes glittered and her lips curved upward, smiling a smile so golden it could have been carved from sunshine. "You are most kind, my king. I do so hope you will enjoy what I have organized. Your coronation ball shall be grand, as befits your blood." She hesitated a moment before asking, "If I may ask, are you alright, Your Grace?"

Rhaegar blinked, taken by surprise at her boldness. "I am well, Lady Cersei, only tired," he answered honestly. "The days are too long and the nights are too short."

Cersei chuckled softly, casting her eyes down briefly. "That is the true tragedy then, Your Grace, for the days should be short and the nights too long." She looked back up and smiled coyly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must pay my respects to the Maiden."

_And what do you pray for, my lady?_

"I'll not keep you from your prayers." He took her hand in his own and pressed his lips to her knuckles briefly, trying to ignore the way she clutched at his fingers. "My lady," he said before turning. 

And when he walked away, he could swear his lips were burning cold.

* * *

He found his mother in the gardens with Daenerys, the little violet-eyed baby girl quiet as a mouse as Rhaella cooed at her. His sister was a silent thing, never crying or screaming, hardly ever making a noise except to giggle breathlessly when Viserys did something particularly amusing. 

She was disconcerting as far as babes went, her intense quiet a most confusing characteristic as compared to when Viserys was still an infant - he had been a violent sea storm bottled up in a baby boy's body, filling the halls with the screeches of his discomfort, the squeals of his joy, the wails of his misery. 

"Stop staring," Rhaella called out playfully, "she'll think you a stranger instead of her brother."

Rhaegar chuckled to himself and drifted closer, bending to sit on the grass next to his mother. Daenerys looked up at him from where she lay with great wonder, her little hands reaching to tug at a lock of his silver hair. 

"That's mine, little one," he murmured, trying to tamp down the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him. _Would my and Lyanna's daughter have looked like this? Silver hair and purple eyes..._ Daenerys smiled. 

"How are you?" Rhaella asked suddenly, her brows furrowing. 

Rhaegar squeezed his eyes shut and blew out a breath. "How did you know something was wrong?"

She gave him a dry look. "You are my son. I always know when something is bothering you."

He lifted one corner of his mouth in an attempted smile. "I visited the babe in the sept today."

"Ah. I see." She laid a comforting hand over his own. "I wish I could say that it will get better in time, but I will not lie to you. Every babe I lost lives on in my heart. The pain never goes away, but you will become accustomed to it. And one day, when you have more babes, the pain won't hurt as bad as before."

"More babes," he whispered in paralyzing terror. _Her Grace, Queen Lyanna, will never bear another child_ , Pycelle's ancient voice echoed in his mind. 

"Yes," Rhaella said slowly. "You are a new king, and the realm will expect you to have heirs that are not your young brother and infant sister."

"Lyanna," he mumbled in agony. His heartbeat seemed to pulse behind his eyes. _Has it really been seven months without her?_ Dragonstone seemed like a long lost memory to him now, the day she left him nothing more than a repression buried deep in his mind. 

They were quiet for several moments before Rhaella asked, "Have you heard anything from Winterfell?"

Rhaegar shook his head. "The ravens should have reached every House by now. I'll check the rookery again tonight though." His heart did a flip just thinking of seeing Lyanna again. _I could join the lists at the tourney..._

"My dear," Rhaella started slowly, looking down at little Dany, "I heard my maids gossiping this morning. They said some interesting things about Cersei Lannister."

"What about her?" He asked immediately. 

Rhaella studied him closely, the way she did Viserys when she suspected him of a lie. "They spoke of you taking a second wife and courting Lady Cersei."

Rhaegar grimaced. "That's untrue. I've not spoken at all about taking another wife."

But that hadn't stopped his small council from discussing it behind his back; Rhaegar was well aware of the council's desperation for him to produce more heirs, princes and princesses to fill the Red Keep and to expand his dynasty. 

He was also painfully aware that a majority of his council championed Lady Cersei to be his second queen, praising her noble bloodlines, her good hips and beauty, but most of all, her status as daughter of the Hand, Lord Tywin, one of the richest men in Westeros. 

Varys liked to report on what all was said from each and every council member, giving Rhaegar a rundown of the whispers he had collected each day. 

"I've dined with Lady Cersei from time to time," he explained, "and she accompanied me to visit an orphanage in Flea Bottom once, but I am not _courting_ her."

Rhaella raised her brows. "I may have been isolated at Dragonstone for some time, dear, but even I can recognize the looks that girl sends you," she said. "She's half in love with you already."

Rhaegar sighed, thinking of the way Cersei had looked dappled in sunlight beneath the crystal dome of the Great Sept. She was a beauty not to be forgotten, he had to admit. And she was gracious and charming, but...

"I have a wife," he reminded his mother. "You may remember attending our wedding."

"Don't take that tone with me." She dropped her eyes, allowing Dany to clutch at her finger. "I love Lyanna as if she were my own, but a queen must give heirs, Rhaegar. You don't have to give her up, but you _need_ children to succeed you."

"I have Viserys," he said quickly, "and this little one." He smiled at Daenerys, running a finger down her cheek. _But the dragon must have three heads_ , a dark voice reminded him. 

"You do," Rhaella agreed, "but your lords will expect you to have babes of your own line. Otherwise, your reign will be vulnerable to rebellion. I know you do not want bastards, and I commend you for that, so that is why you must take another wife."

Rhaegar scowled deeply. "The Faith frowns upon having multiple wives."

"The Faith," Rhaella said softly, "will permit another union for the sake of heirs. You could get a child or two on Lady Cersei, and spend the rest of your time with Lyanna."

"Lyanna's not my pleasure slave," he snapped. 

His mother's frown deepened. "I did not mean her to be one. I know how much you love that girl. I love her, too, and that's why I'm trying to help you wade through this problem. I know this is not easy and you do not wish to betray Lyanna, but you are a king now, my boy, and kings have to make difficult choices for the good of others."

"What about what I want?" He whispered without thinking. 

Rhaella gave him a heartbreaking smile, one that reminded him of the days when Aerys would put his hands on her and leave behind bruises and marks. "My love, kings and queens do not _get what they want_. Such is the lot of a ruler. Your life will be full of hardships down the road, and you'll be forced to make difficult decisions. Decisions much more difficult than whether or not to take a beautiful girl to bride so that she may bear you children."

Hearing her words was the equivalent of being stabbed in the belly, but Rhaegar listened all the same. _I could run away_ , he thought suddenly, wildly. _I could give up my crown and flee to Essos, live in a manse by the sea and take Lyanna with me. Except..._

Except Lyanna was gone, living in Winterfell and safeguarded by a golden boy that loved her, surrounded by home and family and not thinking of her royal husband across the realm. He wondered what she was doing right at that moment. _Are you shooting the bow I sent you? Praying in your godswood? Riding Smoke and letting the wind rip at your hair?_ He would have given anything to be with her right then. 

"You don't have to love Lady Cersei," Rhaella whispered gently, her eyes strangely far off. "I may not like her father or the ambition that seems to cloud every Lannister, but even I can recognize the merit of letting the girl bear your children if Lyanna cannot."

"I don't have to love her," he repeated dizzily. He felt like crying, he felt like laughing. 

"No," Rhaella agreed. "A marriage does not have to equal love."

 _Tell that to my head_ , he thought as his mind drowned in images of three children that were half-dragon, half-direwolf, each one as sharp and fierce as the Kings of Winter and dragonlords of old. _Tell that to my heart._


	60. The Lioness of King's Landing

As a little girl, Cersei Lannister had often dreamed of her wedding day, had loved to think of the way Prince Rhaegar would look as they wed in the Great Sept of Baelor, a sea of noblemen and women witnessing their union with pride. It was a recurring fantasy of hers, and a seed that had been planted in her head by her own lord father when she was young. In the land of Westeros, Lord Tywin's word was law, and he had promised she would one day marry the Dragon Prince. 

Cersei had trusted her father's word, had kept faith in his promise to her even when the old mad king had refused the betrothal. After that, Lord Tywin resigned from his office and took them back west to Casterly Rock, but he'd remained steadfast in his vow to her. _"You will be queen one day,"_ he had said, smiling that secret smile that only she ever saw. 

And she trusted him through it all, even when Rhaegar had been married off to the Stark girl, because who would dare defy the word of Lord Tywin Lannister?

The night of the opening feast for Princess Daenerys' tourney, Cersei wore a dress of pearly damask that was lined in flashing red silk and embellished with crimson scrollwork, the lion of Lannister stitched over her breast in thread of gold. She pinned rubies to her hair that was coiled atop her head in the Southron fashion, and fastened a choker of rubies and moonstones about her neck. 

And she looked as beautiful as a queen on her wedding day. 

The night air was brisk as it filtered through the open arches of the high-paned windows of the hall, chilling her even through her finery. The masses were congealed in a thick clot in the entrance of the newly renovated throne room, alive with a rainbow of colors and a circus of sigils. 

The marble floors seemed to glitter like stardust beneath the light of the tall flaming candles, and the thick white pillars that were veined with black and grey loomed like winter giants. On the walls where once stone had been, melted from the Mad King's wildfire, now murals were done in jewels and gemstones, each panel depicting a famous scene of Targaryen history. 

There was Aegon flying Balerion the Black Dread who was inlaid with onyx and rubies, King Baelor with his pious flower crown that was picked out in a myriad of gems, Aemon the Dragonknight worked over in silver and pearl, and a dozen more masterpieces that flashed like mad in the evening firelight. 

From the rafters hung the skulls of the Targaryen dynasty's dragons, the smallest one the size of a small dog and the biggest, Balerion the Dread, large enough that Cersei could stand tall between its open jaws. 

Each of the skulls was menacing in its own right, gleaming like obsidian, but Balerion's was the worst. Monstrous and fearsome with teeth as long as swords, the empty sockets where its eyes had been seemed to watch Cersei as she drifted inside on the arm of her lord father. 

A chill shuddered through her, but she ignored it. _I belong here_ , she knew, _I will be the dragon's queen and then noble and smallfolk alike will fear me as much as those skulls._ But when she chanced another look at the long-dead dragon, it felt more like foe than friend. Cersei looked away. 

At the back of the room, situated below the high and mighty Iron Throne, was the dais. It stretched forty feet across and was draped with a black cloth emblazoned with the red three-headed dragon of the crown. _One day, King Rhaegar will drape a cloak of his House over my shoulders, and our children will split their arms with a lion and the dragon._

Since she had planned the tourney and the feasts for every night, her seat was placed as close to Rhaegar on the dais as was appropriate without discounting his family and his Hand. 

There were thirteen seats arranged at the dais, Rhaegar's set into the center with six chairs on either side of him. To the king's left would be his mother, then Prince Viserys, followed by Lord Tywin, Cersei herself, her uncle Kevan, and lastly, her aunt Genna. 

On Rhaegar's right were six seats saved for his wife and those of House Stark, but those spots would stay empty all night and through the tourney. 

Lyanna Stark's continued absence from King's Landing had proved as powerful gossip fodder for maids and ladies and men alike. The news of her barrenness had spread like wildfire and it was not so much speculation anymore that Lyanna's name was on their tongues as it was anticipation. 

For if a queen could not bear children, was she really a queen at all? It was no great secret that King Rhaegar's council urged him to take another wife so he might produce heirs for his reign, and though it was meant to be hush hush, Cersei had known her name was on many of their lips as suggestion. 

She smiled as she sat in her seat, Lord Tywin settling next to her. _Father always promised I would be queen, and one day I will sit at Rhaegar's side, surrounded by our silver lion cubs._

Cersei looked out to the ocean of nobles before her, pretending as if she was Rhaegar's queen and they were her subjects. 

She saw Princess Elia of Dorne, black-haired and copper of skin, on the arm of her new husband, Baelor Hightower. She spotted lean and fierce Robert Baratheon speaking animatedly with Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully. She saw the Queen of Thorns, small as a child and escorted by her bumbling son and two seven-foot guards, as they did their best to ignore the presence of Prince Oberyn the Red Viper. 

Cersei watched him for a moment before curling her lip in disdain. She'd been close to being betrothed to the Dornish prince long ago when she was just a girl and her mother was still alive, but her father had better sense and higher ambitions than a speared sun. Cersei went back to people-watching. 

She saw Aunt Genna's weak Frey husband in a crowd of his own, a group of Manderlys and Rowans mingling nearby. There were Blackwoods and Brackens, and the pale-haired Velaryons that looked so much like Targaryens. There were a thousand beasts in the Great Hall and yet the lion sat above them all. 

It took well over an hour for the guests to enter and settle into their rightful places, each one placed just so by Cersei's hand. The four Kingsguards were posted at a corner of their own - Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold on opposing sides of the entrance, and Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell at the sides of the dais. Only Jaime was missing, off in the North guarding the barren queen, but Cersei didn't mind his absence so long as she had Rhaegar. 

Servants skittered about the hall re-lighting the candles that had been blown out by the open windows, and six of them brought in two great draping banners that took three people apiece to hang on either side of the room: one was black and pocked with the red three-headed dragon of Targaryen, and the other was snow white, emblazoned with the snarling grey direwolf of Stark. 

Cersei scowled. That had not been in her instructions to the servants. Lyanna Stark was gone, and perhaps never coming back if the gods were just, and she did not want to remind the realm's nobles that Rhaegar already had a queen. 

The room suddenly quieted and the herald posted at the hall's great oak-and-bronze doors spoke up. "Entering. Prince Viserys of the House Targaryen and Arianne Nymeros Martell, Princess of Dorne."

In walked a small girl with bronzed skin and black hair that was oiled and bound behind her by rings of gold that matched her dress. She smiled as the sea of guests turned toward her and held tighter to her betrothed. 

Prince Viserys was possibly the most wretched child Cersei had ever met, the silver boy always quick to scowl or turn his head when she was in his presence. No matter what she did, be it bribing him with sweets and toys or tempting him with play, Prince Viserys had never warmed to her, and in the end, she had given up trying. 

_He may be Rhaegar's heir now, but when we marry, I will give him many children. And Viserys will never sit that throne._

The two children walked down the carpet that stretched down the center of the Great Hall hand in hand, and the herald cleared his throat to speak again. 

"Queen Dowager Rhaella and King Rhaegar of the House Targaryen."

Cersei felt her breath leave her chest. She did not even notice the queen mother on Rhaegar's arm because all she saw was _him_. 

Tall and slim, his skin seemed paler than milkglass in the night, the candles throwing menacing shadows across his beautiful face. He wore black, as he always did, but made of finer stuff than his usual livery. 

His doublet was glistening black leather, the collar of which was lined in bright red silk and folded over his heart. His breeches were black velvet, studded with black dragons down the side seams, and tucked into high boots of dark oiled leather. The cuff around his wrist gleamed as dark as the dragon skulls above. 

Around his brow sat a circlet of spun gold that was inlaid with chunks of cut crystals; and whenever the candlelight caught them, they threw red and orange beams across the marble floors, painting his skin in the colors of fire and blood. 

Rhaegar seemed too beautiful for this world, like some dragonlord of old come to life from a song. Cersei's heart beat furiously and tingles of lust slithered through her. _I have only been with Jaime, but I want Rhaegar inside me. I would gladly give up my twin forevermore if only I could have this one dragon._

Rhaegar led his mother down the center carpet, head held high as his lords and ladies stood at their trestle tables in respect. The musicians were playing some song, but Cersei seemed blind, deaf, and dumb to it all. Her entire world consisted of and revolved around her king. 

_I will be your queen_ , she thought dazedly. She would need to spend the entire week following the tourney on her knees in the Great Sept to thank the Seven for keeping the Northern girl away. Making Rhaegar hers would be that much easier with Lyanna Stark gone. 

_If I had failed like she had, I would hide, too._ But Cersei was better than that, and she never would lose a babe. A lion never loses to the wolf. 

_But what about a pride to a pack?_ a grim voice asked in her mind. She ignored that and smiled when she caught Rhaegar's eye.

He inclined his head to her, but his eyes were full of melancholy. _When we are wed, I will heal his hurt and all he'll remember is my love._

The little princess, Arianne, was escorted to her uncle's table as Viserys and Rhaella went to sit in their places. Rhaegar though merely stood by his seat, looking out over the hall.

"I want to thank you all for joining us," he said, his iron tone reaching to every corner, "to celebrate the newest addition to the crown: my sister and Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen."

The applause was deafening and seemed to shake the very core of the Keep, leaving Cersei's skin prickled. Rhaegar waited until the applause had died and continued, "I hope you all will enjoy the tourney planned over the next three days, and I look forward to hearing your grievances and receiving your fealty before my coronation." He picked up his goblet of wine and raised it high. "To the realm, may the Seven bless us."

A roar erupted from the crowd as wine was drank and spilled, horns of ales slammed on tabletops to express excitement. It was obvious to Cersei how beloved Rhaegar was as king, and it only made her covet his love all the more. 

When Rhaegar sat, the servants poured inside, their arms heavy with large silver platters so shined you could see your reflection. The first course was dispensed to the dais before all others, the Targaryens served, then the Lannisters. The empty seats to Rhaegar's right sat only wind. 

After that, the food was brought to the tables on the floor, the clinking of utensils and plates and platters a loud song in tune with the conversation. 

Seven courses were planned for and served that night, each one chosen by Cersei herself, as well as the musicians and songs they played throughout the evening. 

The sky went from cobalt blue to Targaryen black as the night wore on, and by the time the food was finished and the plates cleared, Cersei was well and truly drunk. 

She'd only picked at her food, not wanting to appear gluttonous in Rhaegar's presence, though he seemed not to notice much besides his own place. Instead, she'd sipped at the strongwine that had been filled and refilled in her cup, again and again until her head was swimming dizzily. 

Drunk, she noticed that the noises seemed louder, the air smelled sweeter, the music was livelier. Cersei's blood swam like fire in her veins and her lust mounted inside her like some great dragon. The servants made to push back many of the tables, clearing the floor so that the king could lead his mother into the first dance of the evening. 

Watching them with hooded eyes, Cersei imagined herself in Rhaegar's arms, just the two of them before the realm, all her lessers looking on in envy. The king and queen mother's song was a short one, and the next one played was _Brave Danny Flint_ , some sad Northern song about a girl who'd wanted to be a boy. Cersei did not care for it, but it was slow and she wanted to feel her dragon's arms around her. 

She strode to Rhaegar with purpose, placing her hand on his shoulder gently. He started and turned, and she had her breath stolen a second time that night. Rhaegar's eyes looked like black amythests in the low light, and his lips seemed as full and pink as a freshly bloomed rose. She wondered what it would feel like to rest her mouth on his, to have his hand touch her beneath her clothes as Jaime once had.

"Will you dance with me, Your Grace?" She asked breathlessly, melting under his eyes. 

He clenched his jaw and stood silent, studying her for so long that Cersei thought for one sick moment he was going to deny her in front of a thousand guests. But then, he smiled gently, the authenticity of it questionable to her, but she cared not.

"Of course, my lady," he said in his deep voice. _One day you will call me your queen and you will fill me with your seed._ Cersei beamed beautifully at his acceptance, gathering her skirts in one hand. She could feel the eyes of their subjects crawling over her skin. 

Rhaegar took her other hand in his, and when he did, he set her skin afire.


	61. A Red Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place within the same night as last chapter; only now it's Rhaegar's POV. It picks up right where Cersei left off!

"You should smile, Rhaegar," his mother said as they danced across the hall, weaving in and out of the line of twirling couples that surrounded them.

As they turned, Rhaegar's eyes caught Elia of Dorne, smiling and dancing with her new husband, Baelor Brightsmile of House Hightower. The gown she wore was done in Hightower colors, the dark grey silk clashing terribly with her copper complexion. Without the shimmering colors of her usual Dornish attire, Elia did not look so much like a princess as she did some random noblewoman. 

As if she could feel his gaze, Elia looked over, that same admiration she'd always had for him shining bright. He looked away at once; it had been a thousand years since Harrenhal, the only time that their romance might have had a chance. He remembered once thinking she could have made a good queen for him. But that was before...

Rhaella and Rhaegar turned again, passing by Viserys as he twirled little Arianne around on an outstretched finger, both children giggling wildly as the hour grew later. The night was alive with the joy of the Westerosi noble, the throne room pulsing like some great heart as the musicians played louder and drunken words turned bolder. The wine and ale had flowed all night long and, judging by many of his lords and ladies' faces, there would be a generation of babes and bastards made tonight. 

"There is naught to smile for," Rhaegar finally replied, melancholy darkening his tone to steel. He felt within him a soul-eating sadness and a poisonous fury, boiling together dangerously like the beat of two dragons' wings locked in battle. Both were Lyanna's fault. 

"You are alive, you are a king, your realm loves you," Rhaella reminded him firmly. "Just because there are things to frown for does not cut down the things to smile for."

He felt chagrined at once, shamed by the mother who had suffered three lifetimes worth of hardships whilst still remaining good, but his black mood remained. He might have had his health, might be a king beloved, his kingdoms might be free of war...

...but what did any of that matter if he did not have his queen?

"Lady Cersei watches you," his mother murmured suddenly, raising a brow. Since that afternoon she had suggested he take the lioness to wife, they had not spoken of the subject again. He knew his mother misliked the Lannisters, whilst staying aware that without their help, Aerys might still be alive and in power. And yet, the problem of his dynasty persisted: Rhaegar was heirless but for Viserys and little infant Dany, and he had no wife able of child-rearing. 

Rhaegar's eyes flashed up at her warning as they danced around, and locked immediately with glassy green ones that glistened like living wildfire. Cersei Lannister smiled at him softly, hungrily, her cheeks reddening even further. The strongwine she had been served with dinner had proved too powerful for her slender frame, and each time they had danced that evening (four times so far), it was painfully obvious how drunk she was. But it hadn't limited her loveliness - loveliness that burned like the rising sun. 

Rhaegar couldn't help but think he had always enjoyed nights more, when the sky looked like black velvet glittering with crystal stars and the moon hung overhead like a fat silver coin. Nights were made for love and wolves, when nightfall descended and the air rang with howls that floated to the heavens in the old song. The sun...the sun just obliterated. 

"Many people watch me," he said instead, flippantly, moving to kiss his mother's cheek when the song finally ended. The smatter of applause was light before the next song started up. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cersei Lannister approaching. "I think I shall retire to bed now."

Rhaella frowned, her eyes flicking left then back again. She seemed aware of the reason for his excuse. "Your lords will think it odd if you leave. One dance with her won't hurt."

"I have honored her with four," he mumbled darkly, as if he were ten years old again and had no need of women. He had only one woman he wanted and she was not here. "I'm tired of pretending, I just want to sleep." _I want my wife back, I want my wolf..._

His mother studied him for a long time, her face sad as if she bore the brunt of his own troubles alongside him. Then she ran the back of her hand down his cheekbone softly. "Dragons do not bow to gods, but the Seven love their kings. Pray, my son, for a blessing."

 _I don't need the Seven's help, if they even exist. The blessing I need can only be granted by pale-faced deities that weep red blood._ "Perhaps," was all he could reply. _Perhaps I will send a blood sacrifice to a weirwood and see what luck I can conjure. If Father were alive, he would be the first to go..._

Rhaegar sighed and went to move away, but as he did the music ceased and the hall suddenly fell into silence. His ears burned with a faint buzzing, white noise blanketing the throne room after a long evening of harsh raucous. And just as quickly, the hall erupted into a static babble of confused murmurings like the hum of a beehive, the quiet broken as abruptly as it had fallen. Rhaegar frowned, as did a thousand others, and he twisted and turned, searching for the source of interruption of the night's celebration. 

"Entering," the herald posted at the throne room's doors shouted, his voice echoing off the marble wildly. Court quieted once more as a thousand people turned toward the entrance, curious of the latecomer. "Her Grace." Rhaegar's heart picked up a beat, sputtered, then pounded. The herald continued, "Lyanna of the Houses Stark and Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"

His heart might have died in his chest, the very air in his lungs might have been stolen. Mountains could have crumbled, the sky could have fallen, hellfire could have descended on the earth. And Rhaegar would not have noticed a thing. All that mattered was her, _her_ , that dark-haired vision descending the steps into the throne room with the fluidity and grace of a stalking wolf hunting for its dinner. 

The last time he had seen his wife was the day she had left him to go North, that grim, grey day on the island of Dragonstone. He remembered it as vividly as if it had happened yesterday, and not nearly eight months earlier. 

He recalled how the sky had wept, crying tears of hot rain, screaming with winds that had whipped at him violently. Lyanna had looked as pale and gaunt as a skeleton, clutching his dragon's cloak tight about her, but she'd tasted like forever when they shared their last kiss. His wife had sailed away a broken girl on _The Dread_ , the black ship cutting through the Blackwater easily, faster and faster until she was not even a dot left on the horizon. 

That broken girl was gone, and in her place was someone entirely new. Or someone entirely familiar. Lyanna drifted inside slowly, her face clear and calm as still water, but beneath those eyes, those cool _Stark_ eyes, Rhaegar saw fire. Fire he had once admired about her in the early days of their marriage, before everything had been burned and destroyed like kindling on a bonfire. 

Only a hundred feet away from him now, he saw that girl he had met at Harrenhal, the one who had ridden against seasoned knights in stolen armor. He glimpsed the girl who had crept through passageways and dungeons and tunnels to muck through the sewers and run around Flea Bottom. It was _that_ girl, the one full of vibrant life, who had been borne in ice and had the blood of winter kings running through her veins. 

In the throne room, she burned like a falling star. The dress she wore was cut of cherry red silk, one of the colors of House Targaryen, its bodice tight and cut low so as to display the swell of her pale cleavage. Behind her, the gown's train trailed like the great stream of a dragon's fire, and glittering up and around her long dagged sleeves were black diamonds, embellished to look like dark tongues of flame crawling up her arms. 

Lyanna Stark Targaryen had the eyes of a wolf, but the bearing of a dragon queen. 

She floated down the center of the room on the gliding feet of a ghost, holding her head high, keeping her eyes clear. A thousand of her subjects stood on either side of her, packed like two great walls of an alley, every pair of eyes branding her skin: with looks of lust, looks of surprise, ones of confusion and jealousy and interest, but all of respect, grudging or free. 

When she walked, the hem of her dress swished like fire, and with that long unbound hair flowing like waves, there was no mistaking what she was or to whom she belonged. She was an achingly sweet sight to look upon, a sight for his sore eyes and sore heart, and Rhaegar found it hard to move, to breathe, to turn away or anything else. All that mattered, all that existed, was _her_.

"Lya!" The high, childish voice cut through the thick cloak of silence like a warhorn, and a moment later, Viserys darted from the crowd fast as a loosed arrow, running straight for Lyanna.

Her head whipped to the side and she bent down just quick enough to catch the little boy in her arms, holding him tight against her as her face blossomed into a smile. It was love Rhaegar saw in that smile, the same love that had kept her in King's Landing for the sakes of his brother and mother, and away from Dragonstone as he had ridden to the Rock. 

When they pulled apart, there was joy writ plain on her lovely face. "You've gotten bigger!" She noted excitedly, running her eyes over Viserys' face and shaggy silver hair. 

A thousand people watched on as Viserys laughed. "You've been gone a long time, Lya. Mother had another baby. Dany is a princess now, just like you used to be."

A few people chuckled, but only Lyanna's grin mattered. "So I've heard. I can't wait to meet her. I'm sure she's as fierce a dragon as you."

"And Rhaegar," Viserys added. "He's a dragon, too."

If he hadn't been standing so close to the two, Rhaegar might have missed the way Lyanna's jaw tightened, the way she very noticeably did _not_ glance his way. She knew he was there, could feel him like he could feel her, but it was as if he were elsewhere, far and away in Essos instead of a stone's throw away. 

"Yes," she murmured, "like King Rhaegar, too." The title stung worse than a slap. That toxic broth of sorrow and spleen bubbled up inside him again, nastier this time around, and he had to clench his fists so as not to rage like some wild winter storm. 

"Come," Viserys pleaded suddenly, "dance! I learned how while you were at home. I'll show you!" 

_She wasn't home_ , Rhaegar wanted to scream, _her home is with me. Wolves and dragons mate for life, and she is mine just as I am hers._ Instead, he stood still and silent as a statue, watching frozen as Lyanna smiled and nodded and stood to her full height. 

She ignored the sea of eyes staring back at her with grace, and lifted her chin. "Music please, for your prince." Lyanna's voice was soft as if she were speaking to Viserys, but a moment later, the instruments began playing with a noticeable hesitance, and as the queen and little prince started to twirl and giggle clumsily, the song grew sturdier, more confident. 

It was several long moments before others began to join in, _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ provoking a playful atmosphere amongst the nobles. More and more couples joined them over the course of the song, and by the end, the floor had returned to its thick state, clogged with the highborn and sers of the realm. 

Rhaegar didn't remember moving. One moment he was staring, paralyzed, at his wife and his little brother dancing together like children, and the next, he was stood by the Iron Throne, his hand grasping violently at a barb. 

He came to. "Fuck!" He hissed, pulling his hand away. His blood had left a dark smear of crimson against the burnt blade and his pale palm was bloody and sliced open. From his periphery, he saw Ser Gerold step forward. 

"Your Grace," a worried voice exclaimed. Jon Connington came into view, frowning, his pale pink face reddened from drink. "Should I fetch Maester Pycelle?"

"No," Rhaegar said at once. Since the reveal of Lyanna's barrenness, he could hardly stand to look at the Grand Maester, much less converse with him. Rationally, he knew he should not pin the blame on Pycelle, but it was more than difficult separating the old bent maester from the events that had torn his barely blossoming family apart. "I'll be fine in a moment." He sucked at the blood. 

Jon looked unconvinced, but said nothing more of maesters. Instead, he brought up the subject of the small council that they'd been debating for months; every spot on the council had been filled but for one. Monford Velaryon was Master of Ships, Pycelle his Grand Maester, Ser Gerold the Lord Commander, Varys his Master of Whisperers. The two newest members appointed were Jon Connington himself, styled as Master of Coin, and Lord Tywin, Hand of the king. 

The only position that was left was Master of Laws. None of the council members had seemed to agree on one strong candidate, and Rhaegar could not for the life of him think of someone lawful, raised in the face of true justice, to take the title of law master. 

"Have you given any more thought to the Master of Laws?" Jon wondered, still glancing down at the king's bloody palm. 

Rhaegar sighed, tired and irritated, wanting nothing more than to dive back into the crowd of dancers and take Lyanna away. But when he looked for that glimpse of bright flashing red, he saw nothing. "No," he said, distracted. Some of his blood dropped to the floor. 

"Your Grace," Jon objected, "an unsturdy small council makes for an unsturdy reign. You must choose a final Master." More blood slipped to the floor, painting the pale marble red. "Please, Rhaegar, let me get Maester Pycelle."

But Rhaegar didn't hear a thing. His eyes searched the throne room desperately, looking for that flash of red, that long brown hair and pale skin of his wife. He looked and looked, searched and searched, but found nothing. She was gone. 

Rhaegar snapped into action, as if a fire had been lit beneath his feet, and pushed through the king's door violently. Behind him, he heard Ser Gerold's footfalls and Jon's calls. He ignored those too, and all but ran through the Red Keep, desperate to find Lyanna, both men on his heels. 

He checked the Maidenvault first, ripping through each of the empty rooms like a tornado, expecting to see Lyanna lounging defiantly in her former living space. The halls were dark and dusty, and the rooms just the same; there, he found not a trace of his wolf.

Next he went to Maegor's Holdfast, the drawbridge empty and unnatural. He'd only been left with four Kingsguards when he sent Ser Jaime north with Lyanna, and two spots were left empty from Ser Jonothor's and Prince Lewyn's deaths. It was something he and Ser Gerold had discussed at length, considering knights from all seven of the kingdoms, no matter birth or station.

Rhaegar started at the front of Maegor's where a few empty chambers still sat unused. Much of Maegor's Holdfast had been destroyed and built over the last eight months under Rhaegar's order; he'd wanted to completely erase the memory of Aerys' old apartments, and all the atrocities that had happened within, and create new living quarters free of his taint. While the builders and masons were at it, Rhaegar had instructed them to tear apart and rebuild a whole slew of apartments in the king's wing. 

He went to Lyanna's chambers next, the ones she had used for just that little chunk of time after the siege and before she had gone to Dragonstone. His heart jumped; inside, candles were lit and her things had been moved in, trunks opened haphazardly and a gleaming black dragonbone bow propped against the foot of her bed, but there was no sign of _her_.

Frustration balled up inside him, threatening to burst. He was vaguely aware that his palm was warm and slick, the small patter of blood on the floor sounding out before Jon and Ser Gerold caught up to him.

"Your Grace," Jon said hurriedly, "you need to see Pycelle. You left a trail of blood all over the Keep."

Rhaegar looked down, surprised to see a collage of crimson painting the threshold of Lyanna's room. "Not now," he snapped, swiveling and striding to his own room instead. Only one set of footsteps followed him this time, Gerold's armor clinking in the night. 

They marched like soldiers through the halls of Maegor's Holdfast, heading to the room he had used since he was only a child. The room he had grown up in, read in by firelight, slept side by side with Lyanna on their wedding night, the room within which he had taken her maidenhead and impregnated her with their little babe, Rhaella. 

And there, just like all the others, he did not find her. 

His hands itched to pick up the decanter of wine leftover from yesterday's supper and smash it against the wall. He wanted to break something, hit something, exhaust his poisonous frustration into a shower of glass shards and spilled sweet. He stood there, tired down to his soul and aching for her presence. 

What he got, instead, was silent Ser Gerold and the fast-approaching Jon Connington and Maester Pycelle. Just seeing the old maester brought back the dark memory of Dragonstone, how Lyanna had sobbed and his whole world had been ripped apart. Rhaegar fought off an impolite grimace. 

"Your Grace," Pycelle exclaimed in his rickety voice, "your hand! Let me see. Come, let's go inside so that I may look properly at your wound."

With no hope, fatigued and aching, Rhaegar drifted inside and sat as Pycelle bent over him, cleaning the wound, poking and prodding the torn flesh. "I will need to stitch it up," Pycelle said. Rhaegar only nodded, his mind drifting off as Pycelle gathered his sterilized needle and thread and went to bind his palm. 

The Grand Maester was quick about it, and soon he was backing away, cleaning his bloodied instruments and materials from the desk. As he did, Jon broached a black topic, the most taboo of subjects there was, and the only reason Jon was brave enough, bold enough, _stupid_ enough to do so, had to be the flowing wine of the night that loosened his tongue and wits. 

"We must needs complete the small council," Jon said, "as well as the last two Kingsguards. And you need to take a second wife."

Rhaegar slammed his hand on the desk so quickly and so hard that his stitches broke immediately and his blood smeared across the desk. Jon and Pycelle jumped, but Ser Gerold seemed as if he'd expected it. "No."

But Jon was above all stubborn. "Rhaegar, stop avoiding this topic. You can't ignore it and hope the problem will go away. You need children, you need an heir, and you need a wife that can give you those."

"You're approaching dangerous territory," Rhaegar warned. Pycelle crept over, unfurling his maester's roll once again. 

"You have more than _her_ to worry about!" Jon nearly shouted, forgetting that Rhaegar was his king momentarily, lost in the heat of an argument with an old friend. 

"That _her_ you're speaking of is my _wife_ , Jon!" Rhaegar gave back, wincing when Pycelle slid the old thread from his palm and began with the needle anew. 

"Wake up, Rhaegar. Your wife is barren, and useless as your queen. You need someone healthy, someone like Cersei Lannister."

"He's right," a lovely voice agreed from the doorway. Rhaegar's head snapped up so fast his neck cracked, and he laid his eyes on her, leaning in the doorway - on Lyanna, dreamy and gorgeous in shocking red silk embroidered with glittering black diamond flames. 

It took a moment for the four men to realize what she had said. "What?" Rhaegar murmured just as Jon said, "You _agree_?"

She addressed Jon as she drifted inside casually, running her fingers over Rhaegar's walls. "I do. I am not fit to be a queen, my womb is utterly broken. Cersei Lannister is as good a match as any."

 _No_ , Rhaegar thought helplessly, _not her too._

"But," she added, flashing her eyes over at Rhaegar for the first time since she had arrived that night. "I'll only agree if you can do one thing for me."

Though she addressed _him_ , it was Jon who answered. "And what is that?"

She kept staring at Rhaegar, the fire behind him reflecting in her grey eyes. "I want our marriage to be annulled by the High Septon, and then Cersei Lannister can be his only queen and wife." Blood rushed in his ears immediately and he felt fit to pass out. What had she said?

"Your marriage has been consummated," Jon replied hotly. "It cannot be set aside."

"It can," she assured him calmly, all the while Rhaegar's heart shattered. His anger put it back together in disjointed pieces, and then it shattered all over again, a painful, terrible cycle. "The High Septon would grant the king's request if it was for heirs, for the good of the realm. Besides, the Faith is much more likely to annul a royal marriage than allow two wives."

It was Pycelle's turn to cut in, his second stitching already finished. "A woman of such noble blood could not remain unmarried, barren or not, Your Grace," he told her in that ancient, wobbling voice. "His Grace would need to find you another husband, one with heirs already."

Rhaegar nearly spun around to backhand the old man, but Lyanna's next words stopped him dead. "I can marry Lord Robert Baratheon."

The silence was painful it was so deafening. "Robert Baratheon," Jon said slowly, "has no heirs."

"Yes, but he has two healthy brothers. And besides, we were set to be betrothed once. He was very wroth to have lost me to Rhaegar. I'm sure if the king inquired, Lord Robert would not object to our union."

Hope was bright on Jon's face. "We could bring him in to discuss it," Jon said to a nodding Pycelle.

Rhaegar felt a storm raging, his dragonblood flaring like never before. "Get. Out," he whispered dangerously. 

The talk ceased as Jon and Lyanna, Pycelle and Ser Gerold turned to stare at him. "Your Grace," Pycelle went to object, but Rhaegar stopped him with one cold look. 

"Don't make me repeat myself. Get out." Jon clenched his jaw, clearly angry, but he left as Ser Gerold's imposing form fell over him like a dark shadow. Pycelle gathered his tools meekly and followed the other two, closing the door behind him. And then, it was only Rhaegar and Lyanna. 

He felt the anger from earlier that night rising in his throat like dragonfire. "Robert Baratheon?" He whispered, stalking closer to her. She took a step back for each one he took toward her; she didn't look scared though, she only looked _thrilled_. 

She nodded. "Yes, we would make a good match, don't you agree?"

Her back knocked against the door and Rhaegar slapped both hands on either side of her head, the wood stinging his palms. "You've already spoken to him about this?" He asked lowly, darkly, as he flattened his body against hers, leaning dangerously close. 

She didn't answer that. "Robert Baratheon would take me any way he could get me," she murmured as he bent down, their lips brushing in a flesh-searing kiss. 

His tongue slid against hers as he whispered, "Stop talking."

Her mouth was warm and soft and slow beneath his, kindling the lust that had been buried deep for so long. He moaned into her mouth, nearly exploding right there like some green boy. She pushed him away suddenly, without warning, and he stumbled back a step. 

"Cersei Lannister could be your Golden Queen," she snapped, an inferno raging in her eyes. 

That was fine, he was angry too. "Fuck Cersei Lannister, _you_ are mine." He was back on her in an instant, crushing their lips together in a spark that was as painful as lightning striking. She slipped her tongue past his lips, tasting him and firing him up. 

"Then prove it," she said into his mouth hungrily, a wolf starving. 

He needed no other invitation. 

Rhaegar bent down, lifted her under the back of her thighs, and slammed her against the door - a little too hard, but he didn't care. He didn't want to be sweet or gentle, he wanted to fuck her into oblivion. 

Her hands were in his hair, claws scraping against his scalp in exquisite torture. He kissed beneath her jaw, holding her between his body and the door, her legs wrapped around his waist. He bit and licked and sucked at her skin, a dragon keen on devourment.

"Be careful," Lyanna gasped, "you're going to leave a mark."

"Good," he replied, "I want people to see." He pinned her hard against the door, one arm holding her up, desperate for leverage as he pushed up her long skirts desperately. Her thighs were paler than he remembered, but just as soft beneath his palms. 

She'd worn no smallclothes beneath her gown. He clenched his jaw tight and touched her cunt, slick and hot; his cock was straining in his velvet breeches, the friction of their desperate kissing turning him on, turning him mad. 

Lyanna moaned as he slid a finger inside her, curling, stroking, feeling. She was so tight, he was sure that he wouldn't last a minute inside her, the slick heat around his finger mind-numbingly hot it was all he could do to stay upright. 

"Take off your pants," Lyanna ordered breathlessly, eyes squeezed closed as his finger slipped in and out, in and out. "Now," she barked when he hadn't moved. 

He wanted to yell at her, he wanted to hurt her. He wanted her to know how miserable she had made him, staying away so long. Instead, he looked down, fumbling clumsily at the laces of his pants until they loosened finally, and then he reached inside and pulled his cock free, hard as iron in his hand. 

With a knee, he hoisted Lyanna higher up against the door, holding her still, chest against chest, and pushed into her so suddenly, he almost came inside her right then and there. 

"Hold on," he said hoarsely, hot ecstasy racing through him, _begging_ to be released. He waited several long moments, trying to abate his lust slightly. He wanted to fuck his wife hard and fast, so good that both of them would forget what it was like to be without the other. But he couldn't do that if he came before they started. He waited a few more moments. 

Rhaegar moved his hips back hesitantly, looking down to watch himself slide out of her, cock wet with her arousal. He glanced up, meeting Lyanna's glassy, lusty gaze, and fell in love all over again. He thrusted back into her so quickly, the door rattled violently. 

"Ugh, fuck," he groaned beneath his breath as he moved inside her, realizing there was no way for this to feel any less _mind-blowing_ ; he wasn't going to be long inside her, he knew, the fire burning low in his belly once more. 

Rhaegar fucked her hard against the door, panting into her mouth, but not kissing, not speaking. He gripped the flesh of her hips hard as he thrusted inside of her, so hard he knew she would bear marks. That was fine as well. He'd wanted to fuck her into oblivion, wanted the whole castle to know what they were doing; he was going to leave handprints on her skin, in the shades of black and blue. 

Lyanna kissed him suddenly, lips smashed together, moaning hard and long, the vibrations of it tickling his mouth. Her sex squeezed around his cock so good, so tight that the fire in his gut built to a burn and exploded, his seed filling her at the same time she tightened around him, their moans mingling in their own version of a wolfpack's night song. 

As he came, stars burst behind his eyes, leaving his vision nothing but a maelstrom of glittering rainbows as the remaining tendrils of his pleasure shocked through him. He could feel his cock leaking the last bit of his seed inside her, some of it leaking out and down their skin. He didn't care. 

He kept her pinned against the wall for another full minute, their chests heaving as they came down from their high. Rhaegar's throat felt dry as a bone, the moisture stolen by the fire that had raged within him. He drew back from where he had buried his face in her neck, and ever so gently, let her down to stand once more. 

He let his eyes trail down her now-rumpled dress, her messy hair and flushed cheeks, and even though he had just finished inside her, he felt his cock growing hard again. Judging by the look in her eyes, hungry and glinting, she felt the same way. 

He spun her around, hands gentle, wanting to touch her softly this time; his fingers made quick work of the laces down her back, her lovely pale skin painted silver in the moonlight as the gown sagged off her chest and shoulders. Rhaegar pulled it down all the way, letting it fall into a puddle of red silk on the ground. 

When she turned around, Rhaegar was blown away by how different his wife looked. She was no longer gaunt or sickly, but shapely now, with a small, small waist, curved deeply, and full breasts that had come with her pregnancy. Lyanna was a woman now, a beautiful one, and his. _Only mine_ , he thought. _Mine._

She tugged at his doublet, hastily unfastening it and pushed it from his shoulders before ripping the tunic over his head. His breeches and smallclothes came down next, falling to the floor with the rest of their clothes, unwanted and sweat-soaked and forgotten. 

Rhaegar bent forward and touched his lips to hers, mesmerized and more than a little in love, his hands slipping over her breasts and down her stomach. Naked, they stumbled to bed, kissing and touching each other desperately like lovers who had been separated for a lifetime, unaware that outside, the black night sky was lit hot by a red comet that soared overhead. 


	62. A Golden Day

The sun sat like a chunk of Lannister gold in the pale blue sky, shining its light over the vast expanse of King's Landing. 

"I wish I was home," Lyanna sighed softly at Jaime's side, her eyes staring blindly over the crowd before her, going back to another time, another place.

The yard seemed packed with horses, knights, squires, and unused litters, ladies in silks and lords in leathers, a representative from every corner of the realm: a blue-eyed stag, a pack of wolves, a golden lioness that caught Jaime's eye, a swarm of dragons, four to be exact. 

Jaime remembered when there once was five, each metallic of hair and purple of eye, but one. One whose hair lacked the luster of silver, whose eyes twitched black, whose heart was even blacker. Sometimes, Jaime could still feel in his hand the resistance of steel on bones from the night he'd slid his golden sword through the Mad King's back. His dreams were often colored with the murder of his king, but his nightmares were always full of _her_ , wriggling like a fish out of water caught on a hook. 

"You're Queen now, _this_ is your home," Jaime reminded her, taking the reins of his white horse from a waiting stablehand. The buzz of anticipation in the yard was thick, the guests of the realm eager to begin the first day of Princess Daenerys' tourney. 

Oddly enough, it made Jaime yearn for the quiet simplicity of Winterfell, where he couldn't feel Rhaegar's eyes crawling over him in suspicion, where he wasn't constantly reminded of the paramount oath he had broken to his previous king. Winterfell had been months of reprieve, of days swinging swords amongst the quiet of the godswood, riding across vast country, of recapturing an adolescence he'd been robbed of. 

Lyanna snorted suddenly, unkindly, and gave Jaime a look he was all too familiar with, one that was tilted with teasing condescension and vague unhappiness. "I'm no queen," she told him, looking back out at the bumbling highborns. "I'm only the king's wife."

Jaime could feel Lyanna's displeasure like the wet heat of a golden day on the cliffs at the Rock, hanging over him and cloaking his skin; spending seven months alone with her in the frigid North had forced him to become attuned to her moods, just as he had once done for Cersei when they were children, and he could now sense even the tiniest change in Lyanna's feelings. 

So, he did what he always had when Lyanna was upset. He teased her. "You may be the king's wife," he said with a self-satisfied smirk, "but you're still a huge pain in my ass." 

Lyanna chuckled suddenly and turned to him, flashing him a fond smile that made the back of his throat burn. Beyond her, he could make out his golden sister, tall and slim, casting demure smiles at King Rhaegar. Jaime scowled and stared between Cersei and Lyanna with unfocused eyes, allowing his vision to blur so that they merged together momentarily, dark and light. 

_The lioness and the she-wolf_ , Jaime mused darkly. The only two women he had ever been close with, the only two _people_ who had ever known his secrets. Though arguably, Lyanna knew far more about him than Cersei ever had. 

Lyanna knew that he was a kingslayer and a lover of his kin, in the way that was seen as despicable to everyone but the Targaryens. And yet she had never brought up either to hurt him, had never thrown Cersei back in his face; the only time she had used the information had been to gain his sword lessons. And those lessons had started out as a chore, as a bother, long nights Jaime had spent wishing he were elsewhere. 

Until he stopped counting the minutes, and started _looking_ instead. 

Jaime tore his eyes away from his sister, the lover who had yet to seek him out or speak to him since he'd arrived back last night. The jealous, dark gloom settling over him was a friend to Lyanna's own despondency. "Come, _Your Grace_ ," he said, using the title Lyanna loathed and frosting it with that Lannister arrogance she constantly accused him of, "the king awaits."

Jaime led his snow white horse to the front of the yard where his fellow Kingsguards were mounted, each man a replica of the next in armor as bright as Northern snows and long cloaks of pure white velvet. Behind him, he was keenly aware of Cersei greeting Lyanna, struggling with that faux sincerity she had never quite perfected. At home, Cersei was considered the highest of ladies, the most beautiful, the wealthiest, the _Light of the West_. Here, in the royal domain, Lyanna held dear all that Cersei craved.

Here, Jaime noticed, Cersei did not seem to shine so bright as usual. His twin was still classically lovely, as beautiful a girl as he had ever seen, but she was no longer the only one with beauty that drew eyes. 

Dressed in grey velvet and white satin, it was hard _not_ to stare at Lyanna, with that pale perfect skin and wild dark hair. She was fresh, different than what Southron customs usually dictated, a wild queen for the silver king. 

_She's his_ , Jaime reminded himself as he watched King Rhaegar settle his hand low on Lyanna's spine, bending over to whisper in her ear. Jaime looked away. _She is his, just as I am Cersei's._ Cersei was the point by which he had always defined himself; her and his hand, the hand that had won him knighthood, that had earned him his white cloak, and that had slain his king in cold blood. 

_I would kill Aerys a thousand times over for her_ , he thought idly as Lyanna swung an easy leg over Smoke. She was his queen, he was sworn to protect her too. _But not at the expense of a king_ , a laughing voice reminded him. Jaime ignored it and kicked his heels into his horse. 

The party of riders waiting in the yard finally mounted, pouring out the gates by matter of importance. The Kingsguards went first, the line of defense, and after came the royal procession: Rhaegar on his black destrier and Lyanna on Smoke, the horse's coat gleaming like fresh steel. Behind them came Prince Viserys, then the royal litter, filled with Dowager Queen Rhaella, the little princess babe, and Lyanna's ladies - Johanna Mallister, Cersei and Melara Hetherspoon, Ashara Dayne Stark, and the Crownlands twins, Ericka and Emma.

A majority of the tourney guests had already ridden to the grounds, but those who had not followed behind the royal party, bringing up the tail. 

They rode down Aegon's High Hill in a long snaking line, the commons gathering at the sides of the streets to yell and cheer their names. Rhaegar's name was shrieked and shouted, and even Viserys a time or two, but it was Lyanna the commons loved most, calling her out, screaming for her.

"Queen Lyanna!" filled the air like a song, repeated and repeated again. Jaime looked over at his queen, catching the way she smiled and waved at the people; he was suddenly, randomly, reminded of a morning in Winterfell four months past when Lyanna had taken him to an abandoned tower within the castle, where only crows and the cold winds lived. The sun had been hidden away and the skies had snowed gently, and when they had lay across across the roof, looking up, Jaime could swear that nothing else in the world existed but the white of the North. 

He wondered when the snows had become more preferable to him than the sun. 

When they reached the tourney grounds, it was alive. The encampments were bright with colored pavilions, the air was ripe with the salt of the river and the earthy scent of horse. Squires rushed around, and mounts were readied, weapons were tested and last-minute adjustments were made to armor. 

It was a morning of disarray that led into an entire day of roaring competition. The forty man-melee that was slotted to start out the tourney took most of the daylight, each man hungry to prove his strength and valor before the new king. Squires fought knights and lords fought hedge knights, and everyone fought everyone, each round leaving more than a few someones with cracked ribs or broken fingers or bruised egos or just plain unconscious. 

And in the end, it was Lord Robert Baratheon who won, collecting the purse of five thousand gold dragons with a booming laugh and kissing the fingers of Queen Lyanna when coming to bow before the royal box. 

After that came the short lists, for those who were not so experienced at riding the tilt as those who would compete over the next two days. Jaime was eager to ride, anxious to sit the saddle and point a lance at an opponent, ready to knock someone away as they rode. He would win back the glory that had been stolen away from him at Harrenhal by the Mad King; but that would be for tomorrow when his first match was against Ser Oswell. 

Today there was Sandor Clegane who was tall and formidable for someone so young, but not quite as experienced with a lance as he was with a sword; there was Jon Arryn's nephew, and unnamed squires, heavy silvered knights looking to gain infamy and favor but ultimately failing. Benjen Stark brought up the last of the day, beating out his third opponent to the roar of the crowd and commons who'd gathered to watch the games. 

Jaime suspected the love only came because he was the beloved queen's brother, but still he spared a smile for the excitable wolf pup whose grin was as wide as the half-moon sitting upon the sky. 

And all through this, through every hour that passed by the day, as the sun arced over the sky like the swing of a golden sword, Jaime watched Rhaegar stare at Lyanna. The king's purple eyes would take in the games with thin interest, enough to remain polite, but in the end, he could never stop himself from straying back to his wife.

There was something intimate in Rhaegar's gaze, Jaime noticed, something hungry. Rhaegar looked at Lyanna as if he wanted to _consume_ her, and all too late, Jaime realized it was the same look he and Cersei had once sent each other whilst living at Casterly Rock, their love new and forbidden, a dangerous game between twins. He wondered why his chest stung with the realization that the king lusted after his own wife. 

The ride back through the city was slower going, the commons coming out in droves for the night. Prostitutes and tavern wenches, dirty naked children racing underfoot, daring one another to approach the Kingsguard. Jaime rode beside Cersei's litter and wondered if he would be able to get her alone before the feast, so he could purge himself of that odd sharp stinging by fucking the feelings away. 

At the Red Keep, there were so many guests dismounting, going this way and that, gossiping and figuring out where to go, that it was all too easy to grab Cersei and pull her out of sight. He didn't look at her, didn't explain, he just pulled her along until he found a small storage room. 

And he was on her just as quick. She tasted just as he remembered, of light and sunshine, of love and Cersei, their lips slanting together from memory just as they had done a thousand times before. He pressed his body closer to hers, his brain awash with the feeling of his twin so close. Her hands ran up his stomach, stopping at his chest, and she _pushed_.

"What are you doing?" She demanded, scandalized, bending to fuss at her skirts as he stumbled back from her shove. Her eyes were wide with faux innocence, the green sparkling like dark emeralds. 

Jaime smirked, though confused, hating the narrowed glare she shot him. "What does it look like, sweet sister?" He strode forward and cupped her chin, intending to kiss her once more, but she slapped his hand away with a vicious cut that made his cock soften in his breeches. 

"Stop it," she snapped, out of character and cruel. "You're acting like some whoring fool." Her full pink mouth puckered in irritation. 

He was confused, met by this stranger girl who didn't want his touches. There had hardly ever been a time that Cersei _hadn't_ wanted him, and now she slapped him off like a dog begging for scraps. "Sister," Jaime began slowly, "what's wrong with you? We've been apart for so long, it's been _months_. I need you."

Cersei scowled, the downturn of her mouth marring her golden beauty into something ugly. "Act like a man, brother. You're not a child and I'm not your plaything here to milk you like a cow. I'm here for King Rhaegar. Now I need to go get ready for the feast. I need to look my best." She went to leave but Jaime caught her by the elbow. 

He was all too aware of the sound of voices getting louder beyond the room, but he could hardly focus for the stranger in front of him. "Stop this," he told her. "Don't act as if we don't belong together." He might have asked what had changed her so, but he had a knowledge of exactly what had transformed his sister into this stranger. Or better yet, _who_ had changed her. 

Cersei glared, angry now. "What would the king think if news of this got back to him, if someone were to see and he heard of us? Have you ever considered that? Or are you too busy guarding the stupid barren wolf bitch to think about anything else?"

Jaime felt fury rise in him suddenly, scarily. He released her elbow and clenched his fists. "What if the king heard of us?" He repeated in a cold chuckle, unbelieving at the pure irony of it all. "Are you so fucking blind?"

He never saw Cersei's slap, but he sure did feel it; it was as sharp as the ache in his chest, but only half as painful. "You," Cersei blazed, "are an idiot and a fool. Father was right to give up hope in you. _I_ will be the one to bring our House pride. The king has no trueborn heirs of his own, and his wife is a cold useless _dog_. I need to be fit for his consort, and that won't happen if he finds out that you try to fuck me."

He could scarcely believe what he was hearing, and before he knew it his laughter was bubbling out of him without control, wild. He laughed for so long, so hard, that Cersei reared back to slap him again in indignation. But he caught her wrist in the air and pulled her hard against him, the lines of her body stirring his blood. 

"Try to fuck you?" He laughed. "I've lost count of how many times I've been between your thighs. It's always been me and you, you and me. _Us._ " He suddenly remembered the way Rhaegar had been looking at Lyanna all day, and wondered if he was between _her_ thighs at that moment. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

"There is no _us_ ," Cersei hissed. Her eyes flared as bright as the wildfire King Aerys had been so fond of, the same wildfire that had nearly killed him and Lyanna both _that night_. "You are _nothing_ compared to Rhaegar," she spat, venomous as a snake. 

"I am just as good as the dragon," Jaime promised angrily. "But it's no matter anyway. He will never want you and you will never have him." Only Cersei being denied the king could cure Jaime of the sting of this rejection. _My sister, my twin, my lover, my mirror._

Cersei scowled, hatred boiling in her eyes, hatred the likes of which he had never seen before. She was still so lovely. "I will be his queen, and he will love me. Now, unhand me!" She yanked back her arm savagely and whirled. 

But Jaime shouldered past her quickly, black with anger and green with envy, eager to be the first to leave. He could always hide his true feelings from everyone else with his golden arrogance, but there was no point in trying to hide from Cersei. She knew him, _was_ him, they were one soul in two bodies. 

So why did he hate her so much in that moment?

Jaime went to the door and yanked it open, golden candlelight spilling in immediately. But before he left, he stopped, looked over his shoulder, and smiled. "What if the king were to find out about us?" He repeated to her once more, his voice lilting with grim satisfaction. " _Queen_ Lyanna, the woman your precious king _actually_ wants to fuck, knows about us."

Cersei's eyes went wide as eggs and she froze. 

Jaime felt triumphant, but he didn't stop there. "Lyanna caught me fucking you from behind that night when you came to retrieve Rhaegar's battle plans for Father. She saw us and she knows." He tried to memorize every line of Cersei's face, every inch of outrage and utter _fear_ painted on her golden skin in that moment. "Lyanna has kept our secret thus far, but it could easily slip out. Perhaps if you make her angry enough, trying to steal her king, she'll do it."

Jaime knew Lyanna would never, but it filled him with a sick satisfaction to see the confidence drain from his twin, to have her feel as dejected and lost as he did. 

"You wouldn't have let her live if she'd seen us," Cersei whispered, eyes wide. "You would have killed her before she could betray us." Her faith in him seemed shaky, as if it was a declaration said aloud only to appease her rising panic. 

"Oh, sweet sister," Jaime sighed, curling his lip in disdain. "There is no _us_...remember?"


	63. Silk and Petals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank my friend, roboregs, for providing me with the song I listened to a hundred times over while writing this chapter!

"Ser Jaime rode magnificently today," Lady Ericka crooned dreamily, turning her face up to the twilight sky briefly before casting a shy look over her shoulder at the group of Kingsguards dismounting in the yard. 

Lyanna looked back as well. Jaime's hair shone like beaten gold beneath the light of the dying sun, his skin flushed and dewy; unlike Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan, Jaime's armor was clean and pure, no dirt or grass stains to be found streaked upon its white plate. He'd ridden against both of the senior Kingsguards that day, and had beaten them both to the roar of an approving crowd. 

Lyanna suddenly smiled; Jaime's victories had won her twenty golden dragons from Benjen, who had proved an underwhelming bet, and another ten from Brandon who, despite desperately wishing to ride, had opted out of the lists on Ashara's suggestion. 

"My brother is an excellent knight," Cersei Lannister agreed, stepping from the ornate crimson-and-gold litter that had been settled next to Lyanna's horse in the Red Keep's yard. 

Lady Cersei looked just as beautiful as Jaime that day, with that curling golden hair and green, green eyes, clad in a white dress chased with gold that matched her brother's armor. She seemed the very picture of innocence and purity. Lyanna still remembered the way Cersei had looked being pounded from behind by her twin brother. 

"Most gallant," Lyanna contributed, studying the way Lady Cersei whipped her head over before adopting the fakest of smiles; her eyes were green like emeralds, darker than Jaime's, but only slightly so. _Jaime has cat eyes._

"It means so much that you think so, Your Grace," Cersei intoned politely. "After all, Jaime is one of the king's chosen seven. He mustn't be anything less than perfect."

Lyanna clenched her jaw, wondering what the hells Jaime saw in Cersei, besides his own reflection, to commit incest and present himself as an abomination to the heavens. Cersei was gorgeous, of course - she was Jaime's equal - but from what Lyanna had witnessed in just the two days' time she'd been back in King's Landing, Cersei Lannister had a soul as black as the midnight sky. Paranoid and quick to enflame, the golden girl was an irritating presence that Lyanna endured only for politeness' sake. Otherwise...

"Shall we get ready for the feast together?" Johanna suggested hopefully, ending all talk of Jaime. 

It was the end of the second day of the tourney, and spirits would be high. For the morrow brought about the final matches, featuring Jaime, Ser Arthur, Oberyn Martell, Rhaegar, and Ser Brynden Tully, Catelyn's own uncle. 

"Yes," Ericka agreed excitedly, bouncing on her toes. Lyanna's eyes met Ashara's instantly, grey on purple, and the two shared a secret smile, tucking away their laughter. 

"Come," Lyanna said suddenly, playing the queen no one believed her to be, "we may use my chambers." She led them away. 

They walked in a clutter from the yard and into the castle, drifting through the halls with their chatter echoing off the stone like the caws of crows. Cersei Lannister had taken a special liking to the Crownlands twins, but did not much care for Johanna or Ashara. Lyanna had more than an inkling the lioness' distaste extended to _her_ , too. 

_She wants him_ , Lyanna knew, _she wants my husband, and there's naught that I can do. My body is broken and he needs children. Trueborn children, for the realm and for his prophecy. He told me the dragon must have three heads._ Her mind swam uneasily. _Our baby girl._

Over the drawbridge, they swept into Maegor's, Lyanna and Ashara linked by their elbows, Johanna lingering beside them, and Cersei and the twins at their heels. Ashara leaned over and whispered something mean that made Lyanna smile through her pain, but she stopped when she saw one of her maids. 

"Oh, Alys," Lyanna called her. "Would you mind drawing me a bath? Warm water please." She thought better of it. "On second note, make that _scalding_." She had a taste for fire tonight. 

Alys froze and frowned. "Your Grace, I am afraid that is not possible."

Lyanna furrowed her brows. "Not possible?"

"No, no, Your Grace, there is no room in yo- your chambers," Alys stuttered, frightened. She'd always been a quiet thing, prone to speech impediment and not looking anyone directly in the eyes. "A tub will not fit."

Lyanna sighed. Without asking any more questions, she strode forward, pushed open her door, went to the cross the threshold, and stopped. 

The smell was what hit her first, airy and fragrant, sweet and powerful, it seemed to bloom like a giant wave crashing over her. And they were everywhere, covering the floor, covering the bed, covering every flat surface available, from the writing desk to the armoire to every one of her trunks and chests. 

There had to be at least a thousand flowers in her chambers, a dozen different kinds - bunched together with silken ribbons, stuck in watered vases. Some single-stemmed, their stems flimsy and green, some thorny and sharp. Some were thrown haphazardly on the stone floor and some were laid neatly on her pillows in a tight floral row. 

They were alive in a rainbow of colors, too - vases of red roses, dark as blood, bound in black ribbon, and white roses fresh as the fallen snow wrapped up in strips of grey velvet; an entire band of sunflowers was thrown atop her chaise lounge, their wiry stems five feet long; there were wildflowers plucked in purples and yellows, that reminded her of the godswood of Riverrun; bright orange dragon flowers whose cores were red as a blood moon sat bunched in a brilliantly ornate crystal decanter, the candlelight bouncing off it magnificently. There were so many and much, much more to behold, but... 

It was the bed, though, that really took Lyanna's breath away, that had made her stop dead. Across her blankets, _these_ flowers had obviously been picked clean, meticulously shucked, so that her bed was showered with hundreds of petals. Petals that were as blue as frost, petals that made her remember warm days at Harrenhal and cold mornings at home. _Winter roses_.

"Do you like them?" A deep voice said behind her, breath fanning against her ear. 

Lyanna swiveled instantly, taking in the sight of Rhaegar leaning in the doorway, one foot casually crossed in front of the other. Her ladies had gathered in close beside him to admire the room as well, all cooing in awe. All but for Cersei, who looked as if the gods themselves had struck her with silent rage. 

"You did this?" Lyanna asked breathlessly, trying not to pass out from her pounding heart. It was the flowers causing her to feel lightheaded. And the sight of him, too; he'd ridden in the lists late that day as well, suited in gleaming black armor against Ser Barristan and Jon Connington, winning both his matches. Sweat still clung to his silvery hair and face, and his purple eyes were bright with...something she could not place. 

"I did," his smile was a mere lift of a corner of his full mouth. "So...do you like them?"

Lyanna turned her back on him to take in the view of her room once more, seemingly struck dumb by the forest of flowers that had been placed in her room by _him_. There were so many, they were so beautiful. She'd always been fond of flowers. She swallowed against her dry throat, but could not find words. 

"My ladies," she heard Rhaegar say suddenly, "if you could excuse us. My wife and I would like some privacy now."

There were nervous titters, and Ashara came to kiss Lyanna's cheek, but all she could focus on was the colors, the smell, the loud sound of her door being shut and the bar being slid into place to lock them in. Her heart jumped violently. 

"I can't believe you did all this," she breathed out, jumping when he slid, sly as a snake, in front of her. 

Rhaegar's eyes dropped to her lips quickly before flashing back up; they glittered like amythests in the low candlelight. "You had your name day while you were at Winterfell." He stepped closer. "I missed it and I wanted to make it up to you."

"You sent me a bow made of dragonbone, and a quiver of weirwood arrows," she pointed out, intoxicated by the heady smell of his skin so close to her. 

"You deserve so much more than that," he whispered, bending to kiss her gently on the hollow of her throat. His hands came to grasp at her hips. 

Her head rolled back and her fingers came to tangle in his damp hair. The feel of his lips was like being struck by lightning, even though they were soft as feathers. Her heart was pounding. Pounding hard. Hard enough that it seemed to rattle her bones and body.

Suddenly, she remembered. "Brandon told me you offered him the position of Master of Laws," she said as Rhaegar kissed across her jaw. 

"I did," he said simply. 

"He told me that he accepted." She'd been so happy when her brother had confirmed he would be staying in King's Landing to serve on Rhaegar's small council. She didn't know how much longer _she_ would be here, with her barren body, but she was happy to know Brandon and Ashara would want for nothing. 

"He did," Rhaegar said simply again, drawing back to look her in the eyes. 

"He's going to live here now," she pointed out, dizzy from him. 

"He will."

She smiled softly, so, so grateful. It was rare that Northerners were included with dealings of the crown, but Brandon would excel as Master of Laws; their father had instilled within them all a deep sense of justice. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," Rhaegar replied seriously. "But I don't want to talk about Brandon anymore."

Her throat went dry. "Me either."

Rhaegar did not smile, he did not show anything at all. "Good," he murmured, fisting her skirts in one hand. "Then let's stop talking and let me take off your clothes."

He tore off his own sweaty tunic first, throwing it blindly so it landed atop a group of wildflowers in a simple glass vase. Then, he plucked at the laces at the front of her dress with deft fingers that were accustomed to the silver strings of his harp, so that her breasts were exposed to him. He pushed the gown roughly off her hips and yanked her against him. 

Their lips slanted together wildly, and his hands were everywhere. She didn't realize they had been walked backwards, through the maze of flowers, until her knees hit the bed and they fell back against winter petals and silk covers. 

Rhaegar pulled back, fumbling frantically with his belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the room. When it was undone, he shoved everything off so that he was as naked as her. He was back on her quickly, mouth moving down her throat and chest. 

"Robert Baratheon was staring at you today," he said suddenly into her skin before scraping his teeth across the peak of her breast. 

She nearly choked on her breath from the feel of it, but she was still aware enough to know how to pull her husband's strings. "Perhaps Lord Robert wanted to admire what might soon be his."

Rhaegar's fury was as palpable as the smell of the winter rose petals beneath her naked skin. He scraped his fingers down her waist possessively. "You are mine, and _only_ mine."

"Lord Robert wants me," she said shakily as Rhaegar's fingers came to tease between her legs. 

"Fuck that stag. _I_ want you," he bit out, curling two fingers inside her. He was panting against her lips, breath mingling. She challenged him with a simple _oh?_ , and the fire in his eyes raged to hellish intensity. "I'll show you how badly I want you," he promised against her mouth, kissing her softly. 

She couldn't do anything but lay there, panting heavily, as Rhaegar moved his mouth in a trail down her body. From her lips to her jaw, down her throat, over each breast, using his teeth to snag at the skin of her waist and hips, before finally spreading her legs with his calloused hands.

The heat of Rhaegar's breath washed over her like delicious dragonfire as he crawled back to settle in the cradle of her thighs. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, dragging his lips up the inside of her right thigh, and then closed his lips in an open kiss right over her sex. 

A jolt of sharp pleasure shocked her instantly, and Lyanna sucked in a breath. She felt her eyes roll back, and her fingers knotted themselves through the roots of his hair, pulling on them painfully though Rhaegar made no objection. He just kissed her again before rolling his tongue against the nub at the top of her cunt. 

She nearly came right then and there, her nerves frayed and flayed open, practically _humming_ with ecstasy. She could hardly believe how good it felt to have his mouth on her, his tongue playing circles on her sensitive skin.

"Does that feel good?" He whispered on her skin suddenly, dragging his tongue upwards. His hands kneaded at the swell of her hips. 

Lyanna's voice was raspy when she answered in a hoarse murmur, "So good."

They never talked about _this_ when they lectured girls on pleasing their husbands. It was all about duty, letting the husband take their pleasures, laying there until he was finished. They never spoke of the way a dragon's tongue felt rolling over pink skin, of purple eyes glancing up, silver strands splayed wild, of the way a king owned a queen's body, its skin, bones, heart, and soul. 

Rhaegar licked at her sex languidly, softly, all long strokes of his tongue and soft drags with his lips, the same way he might've kissed her mouth. She tried to hold off the pleasure mounting, rising sharp within her, wanting nothing more than to bask in that perpetual state of utterly pure, unadulterated, _so good_ bliss. 

And she might have been able to...if not for the way he stopped momentarily, sliding his tongue against _that spot_ in a sinuous little circle, closed his lips around her, and then _hummed_. 

The vibrations of his mouth rocked through her hard, and less than a second later her body erupted, on fire, with a feeling so amazing, an explosion so strong, her vision went black with spots. She squeezed her eyes against it, her nails coming to scratch red against the hard slopes of his warrior's shoulders. Her legs shook around his head as waves of pleasure washed over her, hard as a hurricane, and her back arched off the bed, winter petals shifting soft beneath her skin. 

The ecstasy stretched on for years, for seconds, for minutes, for months, leaving Lyanna a shaking, limp mess on her rose-covered bed. She felt Rhaegar move over her suddenly, climbing up, his hands sinking into the blankets at her sides, and a moment later, his warm, swollen lips were pushing against her own and his cock was hard between her legs. He pushed into her easily, sliding through her wetness to sink wholly into her. 

She moaned low and kissed Rhaegar back lazily, though hungrily, and canted her hips up to match his long, slow thrusts. She was so out of sorts and hazy-minded from the feelings he had given her with his mouth and the fullness he was making her feel with himself, that when the knock came at the door, she jumped beneath him. He pulled back instantly and their eyes met, his pupils blown wide. No purple remained. 

"Who is that?" He asked quietly, though he couldn't have cared much because he stroked right back into her.

Lyanna moaned. "I don't know," she said, "but don't stop."

He bent to rest his forehead against hers, thrusting inside her. "I won't."

The knock at the door came again in a series, harder and more insistent this time, and then a voice. "Your Grace, Queen Lyanna." It was Ser Oswell. 

"Ignore him," Lyanna said breathlessly, whimpering when Rhaegar dragged his thumb across the underside of one breast. 

"Your Grace!" Oswell called through the door. "Is King Rhaegar in there with you? We cannot find him anywhere. The feast waits to begin."

Had it truly been so long already? Time seemed to disappear when she was with Rhaegar. All around her, the smell of flowers pressed down on her, mixing with Rhaegar's wonderful own scent of his skin. 

"Your Grace," Ser Oswell tried again, a frantic tone taking his voice. 

"He's not here," she shouted suddenly, irrationally, as Rhaegar rolled them over so that he was on his back and Lyanna was straddling him. She lifted up on her knees and rolled her hips in a spiral down his cock. He threw his head back into the bed, blue petals mixing with his silver hair. 

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Oswell called back as Lyanna rode her husband, "we'll keep searching."

"You're a little liar," Rhaegar chuckled breathlessly when Oswell left his silence behind. He grabbed her hips and thrusted up to meet her. 

Lyanna leaned her hands over his hard chest, digging her nails into his skin. "I'll apologize later," she said without care. 

Rhaegar's lips parted as she rolled her hips over him, and he sat up to kiss her hard on the mouth, grinding up into her needily. "Don't," he breathed into her mouth. "They can afford to search for a while."

"And your subjects waiting in the Great Hall?"

Rhaegar's tongue slipped into her mouth, tasting of him and her. "They can go to hell."

* * *

Cersei Lannister sat in the throne room amidst a thousand others, stewing at her place of honor on the dais. All around the music was lively, the floor littered with nobles dancing. The dinner portion of the feast had been long over, though it had started late from the king and queen's tardy arrival...

They had been still occupied from that romantic display Rhaegar had set up in Lyanna's chambers, Cersei was sure of it. 

Her envy had been an ugly thing to rein in when she'd witnessed that room, the jealousy green and monstrous, as wild as wildfire. She'd wanted to take Lyanna by the neck when she had seen those flowers, had wanted to take Rhaegar by the mouth when he'd appeared, silver and sweaty from the joust. 

_He's supposed to be mine_ , she thought with poison in her heart, glaring at Lyanna as she laughed from her brother, Brandon's arms; he twirled her quickly and handed her off to a waiting Rhaegar. The king pulled his wife close. Too close. _She can't give him what I can_ , she thought, _he only uses her for what's between her legs._

Cersei felt tears fill her eyes. She had to do something, and soon, before Rhaegar chose someone else to be the bearer of his children. The Northern girl had some kind of hold on him obviously, but that hold would break once he tired of her barrenness. Of course Cersei had to be careful, now that Jaime had let it out that Lyanna Stark knew of their relations. But would she tell? Lyanna did seem to have some odd attachment to Jaime, much to Cersei's black anger. 

_She's weak_ , Cersei thought venomously. She bit her lip to keep from crying, to keep from raging. _She has my dragon, and she presumes to steal my lion, too._ Cersei no longer needed Jaime, but she didn't want anyone else to have him either. 

_Stupid little whore, ruining my life, my destiny..._

But then, Cersei suddenly remembered something. Two nights ago, when the opening night feast had ended, when the dancing and music had faded, and everyone had dispersed to bed, their own or someone else's. Cersei had not. Instead of retiring to her rooms within the Tower of the Hand, she'd gone to Traitor's Walk, where only the quiet and the night greeted her. 

She had been avoiding Jaime, knowing they'd needed to cut ties if she was going to be Rhaegar's soon. So she had pilfered a bottle of golden wine, sat on Traitor's Walk, leaning against a pillar, and looked up. 

She still remembered vividly the color of the comet that had streaked across the heavens that night, red as blood, its tail smoking grey against the black velvet of the sky. That night, she had marveled at its beauty, only later on pondering its meaning, its promise. _Lannister red_ , she had thought then, knowing it was good fortune for her House, but not realizing what specifically it foretold. 

Now, watching Rhaegar dance with his temporary queen, she realized the comet had only one meaning. _The gods sent that comet for us, for me_ , she realized with startling glee, her eyes bright and wide. _To herald my coming as the dragon's queen._

Cersei watched Lyanna with a terrible smile, fire flaring in her soul. _Soon I will give my king mighty dragons and roaring lions_ , she thought, _and the wolf will feed the worms._


	64. A Crown of Blood Petals

_It's funny_ , Jaime thought as they strolled through the godswood arm in arm, _how utterly bare and skeletal this place seems in comparison to Winterfell._

The godswood of the Red Keep was a bare bones, pathetic place of worship as compared to that of Lyanna's home, sprung with oaks and saplings, dragon's breath and brush, but no weirwood at which to kneel, no carved faces to witness prayer. 

The godswood at Winterfell had been full - full of trees and plants, full of gods and life and chilling spirits that Jaime had felt used to watch Lyanna and him as they chased each other through the wood like children at play. Here, though, in King's Landing, the Old Gods had no place and it was never so apparent as it was in their wood. 

Lyanna pulled him along until they found a small pond with a massive oak tree standing vigil; its trunk alone was twice the size of the Mountain that Rides' torso, and its roots were as big as legs jutting and twisting up out of the ground. 

His queen plopped down very unqueen-like, and yanked Jaime down with her, his whites dirtied almost immediately with forest brush. 

"The washerwomen will kill you," Jaime grumbled, impatiently brushing away grime from his breeches. He'd dressed haphazardly when Lyanna woke him from his chambers, hurriedly pulling on breeches and a tunic so they could go on their morning walk. It had been a ritual in their seven months at Winterfell to stroll the godswood in the morning light, though Jaime had never felt more like a stranger than amongst her trees and gods. 

"I'm Queen," Lyanna said, grinning like a naughty child, "they cannot kill me."

"Fine," he conceded, quirking one brow, "they'll kill _me_."

Lyanna adopted a mask of faux outrage. "They'd never dare! And if they try, I'll raise up my sword against them." She paused, smiling. "I've heard I'm quite the swordsman."

"Whoever told you that must be a liar." Jaime hid his secret smile by looking out into the godswood. He'd never been here before, in the Red Keep's godswood, had never had the need to. For all intents and purposes, he worshipped the Seven, though he'd not said a prayer in so long. 

They were quiet for a long time after that, he and Lyanna sitting together, side by side, listening to the wind and the birds, the rustle of leaves and the gentle lap of water. Her presence was a balm to his soul, a balm to the wrongs he'd committed that tore his heart and honor apart. When he was with Lyanna, he didn't feel so much like a kingslayer. 

When her voice broke the silence, Jaime nearly flinched. "I prayed here, you know."

Jaime's brows furrowed. "I'm sure you have," he said slowly, not following. When she did not say anything else, he continued. "For what?"

Her eyes were somewhere far away when she looked at him. "I begged the Old Gods to let Rhaegar's plan work, to let him depose his father."

 _Perhaps all the gods do not care for our prayers. Perhaps they hear, they laugh, and they ignore us_ , Jaime thought, snorting. 

"But then I prayed for something else," Lyanna cut in quickly, the grey of her eyes coming alive like fresh-forged Valyrian steel, sharp and deadly and the loveliest thing he'd ever seen. "I prayed to my gods that they would send me a hero...a hero to kill the Mad King."

Jaime's heart skipped a beat and died in his chest. She had prayed and the gods had answered her with him. Had the Old Gods forced him to kill his king? Had they sent their ancient powers to entrance his hand and mind, so that he would drive his sword through the Mad King's back? 

No, probably not...and yet still, goosebumps erupted along his body. "I broke my most important vow," he finally said, though he never believed one vow was more important than the others. "I am no hero."

Lyanna grabbed his hand suddenly, hard, and shook it so that he would look at her. "You're _my_ hero," she corrected him. "Whilst everyone else turned their heads at Aerys' madness, you and I were forced to see." She studied him for several long beats. "You are my hero."

The intensity of her words, the intensity of her stare had Jaime's throat dry and closing up. When she finally looked away and slumped back against the tree, he felt like he could breathe again. She did not let go of his hand. 

"I'm scared," she said without preamble, looking out to the pond. 

"Of Rhaegar?" Jaime asked, confused. As far as he had seen, the son did not follow in the father's footsteps, though a man could change his nature whilst naked in bed. Had Rhaegar hurt her? His free hand formed a fist. 

"Of Rhaegar _winning_ ," Lyanna finished for him, clenching her jaw. 

It was the final day of the tourney, the last of the champions' matches slated for midday. And by twilight, a winner would be announced for all to see. 

"Don't you want him to win?" Jaime wondered. He was completely lost. 

"Yes," she admitted, "but no. The winner of the tourney has the privelege of naming his Queen of Love and Beauty. I fear that he will shame me and name another today. I'm not stupid, no matter how much his advisors may like to think. I hear their talk, how they whisper in his ear of another wife, another queen." When Lyanna looked at him, there was a wolf in her eyes. "He will name your sister."

Jaime's heart thumped. He'd not spoken to Cersei since their fight, but it hadn't stopped him from seeing her everywhere. At the tourney, at the feasts, at the private breakfasts in their lord father's solar. And any time the king was around, her eyes never left him. 

"He crowned you at Harrenhal," he started. 

She finished, "Only because I was of some use to him then." She chuckled darkly. "I am but a dried husk now, of no use to anyone."

Jaime squeezed her hand. "You're stupid if you think that," he said sharply. 

Lyanna closed her eyes and smiled that fond smile only ever meant for him. " _You're_ stupid if you don't."

"I'm the dumbest fucker alive then."

Lyanna laughed then, shaking against him until Jaime joined in, and their laughter filled the trees like wind. He knew he would win for her today, would win her that crown so her king could not name another. _Wolves are not shamed_ , Jaime thought wryly, _even before the whims of dragons and kings._ You could not shame a wild thing. 

When they finally settled down, Lyanna spoke. "If he marries another, I won't stay."

Panic filled Jaime without warning, sharp and sickening, and his head swam. "You won't stay?"

"No," she answered. "And he will marry another, he has to. He needs true heirs. But I won't be shipped off to marry some other lord so they can have the prestige of my name either. I'll run away, to Essos maybe."

"And I'll come with you," Jaime played along instantly, hiding his desperation with a playful voice. She couldn't leave here, she couldn't leave. 

Lyanna smiled over at him. "Oh? And what will we do?"

Jaime thought. "I'll become a sellsword, join some company." How many times had he offered the same thing to Cersei, only to have her throw it in his face that she would be a queen, and not some sellsword's girl? 

"The Golden Company," Lyanna threw in with a chuckle. 

"Why that one?"

Lyanna took her free hand and ran it through his curls. "For your golden hair of course."

Jaime smirked, his scalp tingling. "I'll join the Golden Company," he amended, "and you..."

"Will become a sorceress," she finished, giggling. 

Jaime shook his head fondly, playing idly with the hilt of his sword. " _The Sellsword and the Sorceress_ , what a song the bards will make of us." He felt like a boy child again, in that specific way only Lyanna could make him revert back to. 

Lyanna quieted, her mirth stolen suddenly. "Life is no song," she sighed deeply. She raised her eyes to the sky. "Besides...you're the king's man, a White Knight, a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. You could not leave."

Jaime flipped his palm up and squeezed her hand where she still held his. "I killed a king for you once," he reminded her, looking into her eyes when she whipped her head over to see him. "I'm not scared to run away from another."

There was hero worship in her gaze, hero worship meant for _him_. "Brandon is staying at Court," she told him suddenly, "but Ned will go home soon, possibly Benjen, too." Her eyes were grey chalcedony. "Don't ever leave me in this place alone. You're my closest friend, I couldn't bear for you to be gone."

Jaime thought of Cersei and how she would look being wed to Rhaegar in the Great Sept, her golden hair shining beneath a crown as the crystal dome swept rainbows over her wedding gown. 

"Like you said, my queen," Jaime said softly, all arrogance stolen, "I am a Kingsguard, I'm not going anywhere." He squeezed her hand before letting go. "Unless you mean to leave, too."

* * *

His heart raged. Raged wild as an autumn storm at sea, rattled and rampaged like some great monster roaring for release from its cage of bones. Its beat pulsed behind his eyes. His skin was slick with sweat beneath the cold bite of his mail, yet his arms were cropped with goosebumps, and his veins rushed with such great adrenaline that his knees felt like pudding around his horse. 

All around, the furor of the stands crashed over Jaime with the strength of Northern storm waves, entrapping him and holding him frozen like Cannibal Bay in the Shivering Sea. His wild eyes searched the galleries, sweeping past a thousand pairs of noble eyes to land on one, just one. A pair of eyes that rippled like steel and cut through him easy as warm butter, eyes that were set into a face so lovely that even the gods would weep to behold her. 

Jaime could sense her relief, could practically feel it like a caress on his skin. Lyanna's words rushed back to him in a dizzying reminder of their sit-in at the godswood that morning. _I'm scared_ , she had admitted with iron in her eyes, _of Rhaegar winning._

She feared for her shame, feared for her king husband's fidelity and actions should he win the tourney. She feared the advisors that whispered against her in Rhaegar's ear. Jaime had not promised Lyanna a thing that morning, had not quelled her doubts, but he owed her all the same. He owed her for knowing his secrets and keeping them held tight in her grasp, he owed her for her friendship and loyalty, he owed her because...she was Lyanna, and he had killed a king for her. He could stand to beat one as well. 

Jaime lifted the visor on his helm as his squire rushed over with a fresh lance, the long wood of it painted white with whorls of gold down its length; at the tip, a lion was done in brass to roar its defiance. Eight lances had been shattered against Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully before Jaime had won the match that slotted him for the final, and his horse was riled and angry, blowing breath from its nostrils like some great, dreadful dragon. 

Across the yard, King Rhaegar was entering, the black of his armor catching the afternoon light to gleam like dragonglass, the rubies in his plate shimmering like hot coals. His squire followed behind, carrying the thick lance painted red, as well as the dragon's helm that which had strips of red and yellow silk attached to its top like streaming fire. The king threw a leg over his black horse, donned his helm, took his lance, and nodded off to the side. 

The trumpets blew their fanfare over the noise of the nobles, and the cheering of the commons who had come to see the final game, and Jaime's heart pounded furiously. Pounded so hard, it took him back to the day he fought with the royal forces against the Kingswood Brotherhood, his hands green and his soul just the same, but his arrogance and bravery Lannister gold. 

He felt as if he were about to go to his death as he kicked his horse to a trot, felt like his breakfast was going to swim up his throat. His chest rattled so hard that his teeth chattered, and his hands twitched with adrenaline. _If I do not go to battle, why do I feel like I ride for war?_

He'd never felt so sick, so nervous before, though he did not doubt his prowess to win. He was Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin, a lion of the Rock, the youngest Kingsguard ever to be inducted, and Kingslayer besides. He was going to win a crown for his queen. 

Rhaegar and Jaime's horses met in the middle of the yard, black and white, then trotted alongside one another to stop before the royal box. Rhaegar lifted the visor on his helm and inclined his head, murmuring, "My queen."

Lyanna looked to Jaime next. Her eyes were grey, grey like the stone of Winterfell, dark as the pool beneath the heart tree of her godswood, her face pale as the snows. He was tempted to betray their closeness by addressing her with her plain name, but he knew by the look in Rhaegar's eyes that would be pushing it too far. Instead, he said, "My queen," and nodded to her, attempting to convey through his gaze she had no need to worry.  

He would play the Dragonknight today. For her. 

Jaime rode to the end of the list then, as did Rhaegar, trying to shrug off the heavy weight of Cersei's eyes on him from her position at Lyanna's side. His horse shifted beneath him restlessly, snorting, and the lance seemed to make his wrist seize in pain. But he would not, could not let Lyanna down now. Not now, not with the very real chance of Rhaegar crowning Cersei looming over them both. He didn't think either could bear to watch _that_ spectacle. 

From his designated spot behind the rails at the sides, Viserys stood proud, his small body clad in child's mail and steel, his silvery hair shining like polished metal. In his hand was the ceremonial flag to commemorate the final joust, waving black and red for the crown's colors. Ser Willem Darry, master-at-arms, bent to whisper in his ear and gently pushed the prince forward. 

The squires rushed back as Jaime and Rhaegar came to their marks, each man readying himself to ride. Jaime flipped down his visor and corrected his hold on the lance, gritting his teeth as he spared one last look at his sister, then his queen. He turned away before his heart could leave his body. 

Viserys puffed up his chest as he stepped into the yard, raising his chin just before bringing the flag down in a short, blurred black arc. "Let the game begin!" He shouted right before he leapt back.

Jaime felt like the wind itself as his horse sped down the line, its galloping hooves thundering like a hellstorm over the roar of the crowds. Through his slitted visor, he saw Rhaegar speeding at him, fast as the beat of a dragon's wing, his long red lance aimed at Jaime's heart. 

Closer and closer they came, white armor, black armor, white horse, black horse, until they clashed, both their lances shattering in a magnificent shower of red-and-white splintered wood. Jaime cursed, the word of his irritation lost as the stands roared. His name was shouted, and encouragements were called, the dragon exalted in cheer as they trotted off to their respective ends, gathering fresh lances from their squires before going back to their marks. 

Jaime's heart was in his throat as the flag was waved, and his stomach at his feet as he rode to meet his king once more. 

Over and over they met in the yard, clashing and clashing again. The flag was tired and lances were shattered, some gliding sweetly off steel, some landing solid though seats in the saddle were kept strong. Jaime's heart no longer seemed to work, his breath stolen, his scalp burning from the warmed steel, sweat pouring down his face. His breath was hot as fire in the confinement of his helm, and all he wished for was a swift end, a swift victory so that Lyanna could have her rightful crown. 

So Cersei could know his pain. _Their_ pain.

The king and Jaime had met ten times in the yard, each shattering three lances against the other, landing blows with the rest. Jaime panted hard, his chest heaving as he lifted his visor to drink from the skin of water his squire had brought him. He splashed the cool drink into his mouth, down his helm, let it soak into his skin as the white noise of the frantic audiences washed over him. 

"Are you alright, Ser?" The squire shouted up at him, face crumpled with concern. 

"Fine," he said back, glancing up. Lyanna's eyes were on him through the chaotic haze of anticipation, her faith in him strong. He could sense her fear, knew she would never forget the shame of being set aside publicly, especially in front of her family and the entire who's who of the realm. Beside her, Cersei wore a golden mask of smug assurance. Jaime scowled; he had to do this. Not only for his pride, but for Lyanna's as well. 

"Get me my lance of Lannister," Jaime called to his squire, looking down the yard to Rhaegar. _You may be my king, but_ she _is my queen._

The squire came back quickly, producing the type of lance Jaime had always used before becoming a Kingsguard. Its length was painted crimson, with stripes of gold swirling about the wood, the words of his House done in harsh black. _Hear me roar._ And hear they would. 

Jaime rode to his mark with a renewed fervor, his lion's blood screaming in his veins. A sort of sharp anticipation thrilled his body, making his skin tingle, making his wrist strong and his seat steady. Even kings were not invincible, and Rhaegar was no different.

When the flag was waved this time, Jaime was ready. He kicked his heels and his horse shot off, gliding over the yard with the otherworldly speed of a dragon's wing, hooves thundering into the dirt louder than any cry or cheer. He leaned forward in his seat, his thighs tight, with his lance poised at Rhaegar's chestplate in a morbid reminiscion of the former king's death. 

Rhaegar's black plate was a blur across the list, steadily racing toward him, his own lance pointed at him with a promise. _I am a lion_ , Jaime thought, _hear me roar._

Jaime's arm exploded in piercing pain as his lance struck home, the impact reverberating through his shoulder, landing so solidly into Rhaegar's plate that the king was swept from his saddle like a ragdoll, landing in the dirt in a clatter of dark steel. 

The stands hushed into pregnant silence and Jaime wheeled his horse around, plunged into a horror so strong he was paralyzed in his seat. _Please, gods, no. Please don't let me have killed another. I only wanted to beat him..._

Jaime jumped from his horse, shoving aside Jon Connington who knelt over Rhaegar. "Your Grace," Jaime called frantically, shaking his black plate. _No, please no._ Jaime's heart rushed to his throat. It was several long, terrifying moments before Rhaegar finally groaned and took Jaime's hand with strength, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. 

When the nobles and commons saw their king was fine, they cheered loudly, jumping to their feet with applause. At the top, Lyanna had rushed from her seat in the royal box to clutch at the lower rails, terror writ plain on her face. Rhaegar lifted his visor and blessed his wife with a smile so intimate, Jaime felt as if they were in a bedroom. He shivered under his mail and steel. 

Rhaegar turned to Jaime slowly and clasped his arm hard, tugging him closer. The king's purple eyes were disturbing, alien, making Jaime's stomach curdle with their intensity. "Well ridden," Rhaegar allowed, nodding his head, though his jaw clenched and grinded. 

Jaime bowed before his king. "You as well." Behind Rhaegar, a young boy approached quickly, his arms laden with a soft pillow, and on top of that, a wreath of roses. He bent a knee before the king, bowing his head.

Rhaegar took the crown of flowers and addressed the galleries. "Ser Jaime Lannister of my Kingsguard is the victor of this tourney!" The applause rang out, and under the lion banner, Lord Tywin studied his son with pale scrutiny. "He will now name his Queen of Love and Beauty!"

The laurel of roses was pressed into his hands and Jaime looked down; the crown itself was a dark and lovely thing, its bed twisted of thick vines cut of their thorns; the roses tucked throughout, though, were truly magnificent, the core of the petals white as the fallen snow, but crimson on the tips, as if they had been dipped in blood. _White for Stark and crimson for Lannister_ , Jaime thought with dark amusement.

He spared his king one last look before setting off to the stands, the roses as heavy as steel in his hands. It was not unheard of for Kingsguards to name their queens as Queen of Love and Beauty, but for some reason, it felt wrong to approach Lyanna. _You're doing nothing wrong_ , he told himself as he climbed the stairs to the royal box. Oftentimes he found if a man had to convince himself that he was innocent, he wasn't. 

Cersei smiled as he approached, so different from the cutting storm she had been a few days prior. She seemed to think he was coming to crown her with those lovely roses, her green eyes glittering dark...

...but her smile died like water on flames when he went to his knee before Lyanna. "My queen." He offered up the crown of roses and waited. 

Lyanna face was painted in shock, her jaw slack and her eyes wide with disbelief. She'd clearly also thought Jaime would crown his sister. Slowly, and with great reticence, she went to take the crown, her hands shaking all the while. 

She inclined her head with the barest of movements, a secret show of gratitude for what Jaime had done for her, then carefully placed the rose crown over the top of her head, looking down into the yard. Jaime looked back, too, and met eyes with his king. 

_Do you love her?_ Rhaegar had asked him all those months ago at Dragonstone. _Do you love her?_ The question rang in Jaime's head like a song as he wondered if this crown of snow-and-blood petals would provoke a new dragon's madness.


	65. Mad, Mad, Mad

The night was blanketed in lilac and indigo, the moon a silver eye staring down upon the capital. The air was crisp and cool, but beneath that was the stink of the city pressing down on his nose, insistent and reeking of whores and shit. 

Rhaegar looked out upon King's Landing from a dark alcove in a side corridor of the Red Keep, its high arched window long forgotten from the masses of Court. The torches sitting in sconces upon the wall were flickering and dim, dying, but the amber glow was enough to make out the white form standing ghostly silent around the corner. 

Rhaegar took a deep breath and held the air in his chest until his lungs screamed in pain, literally dying for relief. The burning made him dizzy, but it also strengthened his resolve, made his anger blaze that much brighter, that much bolder. His sword hand jerked violently. Curiously calm, Rhaegar wondered if he'd left Fire on his bed...

... _Young Jaime Lannister, the White Lion of the West_. Would that Rhaegar could dispel the boy, disregard him and send him to the bowels of Casterly Rock with his little tail tucked between his legs all the way home. 

It had been only hours since that spectacle at the tourney, Jaime on his knee before Lyanna, the ever gallant shining knight, offering up the crown of roses - roses that which Rhaegar had taken painstaking measures to find and procure. All for her, red and white. _Red for Targaryen and white for Stark._

Of course no one else had found Lyanna being crowned out of the ordinary, or even an event to be remembered and analyzed. There was a precedent set over history, hundreds of years of Kingsguards crowning their queens and princesses with the prizes of tourneys - the laurel for Queen of Love and Beauty; after all, knights of the Kingsguards were forbidden to have wives or concubines or whores, and often served protecting the women of the royal family. But Rhaegar...he knew there was something off-putting about Jaime Lannister. 

He'd once asked the little lion if he loved Lyanna, at Dragonstone, and though Jaime had never answered, Rhaegar suspected all the same. 

And what had he done with those suspicions? He'd doused them in wildfire and set them ablaze by allowing Lyanna to go off to Winterfell and sending Ser Jaime with her. He'd fed the monster, and now he was reaping his own handiwork. 

Seven months alone together in the frigid North, her healing from her sadness by the lion's side. It seemed all such a horribly twisted mummer's play, the princess and the knight. Rhaegar scowled. _It's my fault_ , he reflected, _I should have forced her to stay with me, heal with me. Instead of indulging her hurts, I should have made us face them together._

"Ser Gerold." Rhaegar's voice cut through the night air like a knife, rising above the cheerful bumble emanating from the feast in the throne room down the way. 

Ser Gerold stepped forward, a stark white figure glowing in the dark alcove. "Your Grace?"

Rhaegar flexed his jaw, grinding his teeth together. A wreath of white-and-red roses suddenly flashed in his mind, nestled on a crown of brunette hair; Lyanna had worn the roses to dinner tonight, as was the custom of Queens of Love and Beauty. 

An image of blue roses came to mind next; Lyanna had never worn her winter rose crown at Harrenhal, too angry at him for having crowned her at all, but she'd enjoyed it well enough when he'd made love to her on her bed of petals. 

"Bring Ser Jaime to my chambers," Rhaegar said into the silence, his eyes fixed on the silver smattering of moonlight on the Blackwater in the distance. "Have him wait for me. I'll be there soon enough." The little Lannister could stand to steep himself in anticipation for a time. 

Ser Gerold inclined his head and swept away in silence, his Kingsguard cloak swishing like a flash of starlight in his wake. When he went, only darkness remained, the candles having extinguished in the wind. Rhaegar molded his hands around the windowsill, briefly clenching his fingers into the stone as if they were claws. 

Then he took the opportunity of isolation from his guard to rock back on his heels, rear back, and slam his fist into the wall. The impact was brutally painful, hardly satisfying, but there was an utter sense of relief immediately after. As if just the tiniest bit of aggression had been released. And yet still...

...there was enough rage coiling hot in his bones to make Rhaegar wonder if he'd inherited his father's madness after all. His rage was a black and red thing, sizzling like hot coals and smoking like the plumes of a dragon's nostrils. 

He couldn't remember ever having been so potently angry before, not even when he'd found out what his father had done to Lyanna. At least then, his anger had been cut with the dark grief of losing his child. Now, there was nothing with which to water down his wrath. 

He let it bubble in his veins, grip his bones, twist in his muscles, and ferment in his heart. 

When enough time had passed that his legs began to ache and his knuckles had crusted over with thick, gummy blood, Rhaegar turned and made his way to Maegor's Holdfast, bypassing the feast altogether for the night and going straight to his chambers. 

Outside his room Ser Gerold waited, tall and sternly-made, his face entirely impassive. That face had seen things, _cruel_ things done by the Mad King. Rhaegar wondered how Gerold kept his heart from turning to stone and beating instead. 

With the chamber doors open, Jaime was a beacon of gold and white, standing still as the Warrior with his hands clenched at his sides. Rhaegar stepped into the room lightly and kicked the door shut behind him, a glimmer of orange catching his eye. Fire lay on the bed, its naked blade glimmering hot; he went to it. 

The room was immersed in utter silence, so heavy and tense that Rhaegar could see a bead of sweat forming on Jaime Lannister's golden brow. A fire roared in the hearth and a hundred candles had been lit so it was hot as a dragon's nest, warming Rhaegar's blood. 

Rhaegar ran a single finger down Fire's steel, his veins thrumming with thrill. His voice sounded like iron. "You have woken the dragon, Ser Jaime."

Jaime made not a noise, raising those green eyes. With the firelight reflecting in them, they seemed like living wildfire. "I'm sorry, Your Grace?"

Rhaegar's head whipped toward the knight. "Don't play with me. Faux stupidity does not become you." He cracked his jaw. "You know to what I refer."

Jaime went completely still, not even his arms or legs shifting. The two men stared hard at one another for several long, discomfiting beats. Finally, Jaime said, "I thought you would be honored on your wife's behalf."

"Honored," Rhaegar chuckled breathlessly, the sound of it without humor. "You thought to honor me?" He brought Fire down so that the tip of the blade touched the floor. "You sought to honor Lyanna certainly, but _I_ was not on your mind, I'm sure."

Jaime's brow lifted just enough to be counted insolent. "Is this because I won over you?"

Rhaegar whirled. "You little bastard," he seethed, "I am not angry that you beat me. In fact, I welcome the competition. But _not_ when it comes to her."

Jaime said nothing. 

Rhaegar began to pace, his long legs making harsh strides like a caged animal anxious to be free. Dragons had never been meant to be caged, that much had been proven by the history of the Dragonpit...but this cage was one of Rhaegar's own making, a cage built on mistrust and a gaping distance between him and his wife that he had no idea how to even begin filling. 

"What are your goals here?" Rhaegar finally asked, looking over his shoulder. 

Jaime frowned, genuinely confused. "Sire?"

"Your goals," Rhaegar repeated impatiently, "with Lyanna. You must want something of her."

Jaime blinked several times, his frown deepening. Slowly, he answered, "She is my closest friend, Your Grace."

"She is your _queen_ ," Rhaegar snapped instantly, enflamed. His jealousy was getting the best of him, he knew, manifesting itself into a little dark voice in his head that urged him to slice young Jaime Lannister up from head to heel. 

_Do it,_ it whispered. Rhaegar's eyes fell to Fire's blade, and for one wild moment, he could see blood and gore dripping down its steel before it went back to normal, clean and glimmering. He was going mad. 

"I'm on to you," Rhaegar whispered darkly, twisting the hilt of his sword around in the palm of his hand. "I see what's in your eyes when they look on her."

Jaime's jaw moved furiously, whether in irritation or anxiety, Rhaegar did not know. And he did not care. 

"I see my queen," Jaime finally answered. 

" _My_ queen," Rhaegar corrected, "she is _mine_. I'm not sure what it's going to take to get it through your head that Lyanna will never be available. To you or anyone else for that matter. 

"I may indulge your friendship because I feel indebted to you for saving her, but do not think for one second I will allow any more than that." Rhaegar's lip curled and the knuckles where he had punched the wall earlier cracked open with fresh blood, spilling down Fire's pommel. 

"You're playing with fire, Ser Jaime, and I will burn your entire world down before I let you take her from me." Rhaegar shook with bottled rage. "You gave your life to my father for that white cloak, and when you killed him, your life became mine to do with as I see fit." He looked Jaime straight in the eyes. "If I ever have to have a conversation with you like this again, it will be the last you ever have. I will paint this city red with your blood and build a castle on your bones." He paused, lowering his voice. "Do you understand me, Ser?"

Jaime's own anger reflected in his startling green eyes, that Lannister pride bubbling to the surface. "Yes," he gritted out, "Your Grace." The title sounded like a curse. "If that's all?"

Rhaegar smiled without the least bit of humor. "You may leave."

Jaime turned quickly and went to the door, wrenching it open. His white cape billowed but lay dead when he stopped suddenly. Ser Gerold turned out in the hallway, but made no other move. 

Jaime's voice was quiet when he spoke, his back still to his king. "She was afraid you would shame her if you'd won. She thought you might give the crown to my sister, because she hears the rumors of you taking another wife." Jaime turned his head, one eye meeting Rhaegar's, sharp as a cat. "Your Grace." And then he swept out, boots stomping all the way until the sound of his departure vanished completely. 

Rhaegar was frozen in place, his knuckles stinging and his heart pounding, but all that seemed a dream to what was in his head. Shame her? Shame Lyanna? How could she think that? 

He let Fire clatter to the floor and he went to his bed, mind dizzy. Everything was so wrong, where to even begin to start fixing...life couldn't go on like this, in a suspended limbo of no finality, no conclusion. He had to do something...something...something. 

"Ser Gerold, if you could close the door please," Rhaegar said, his voice echoing queerly in his head. _I'm going mad..._

When the door had been shut, Rhaegar shoved off his boots and lay his head on the pillow, his thoughts and fears jumbling together into a nearly unbreakable knot. 

And for the first time since Lyanna had been back, he went to bed alone and fully clothed.

* * *

The sun woke on the horizon in a blaze of glory, rising like a ball of white-hot fire to dapple its light over the black waters of the bay. It was the day after the end of the tourney, the day before her coronation, and Lyanna was a wreck. Her hands shook harshly, her skin crawling, her very thoughts racing like a violent pack of wolves on the hunt. 

It was also the first morning she hadn't woken in Rhaegar's bed, in Rhaegar's arms, their skin sliding together. Her husband had been conspicuously absent from the tourney's final feast the night before, gracing the hall with his presence only to officially start the feast and then leaving before the first course was even served. 

She'd considered going to his room afterward, to coax him from his clothes perhaps, but she could never find the nerve, could never muster the courage. She realized that she couldn't fix his anger with her body, no matter how much she ached to. So instead, she went to sleep in her own chambers, woke up alone in her own chambers, and walked the Red Keep aimlessly this dawning morning. Alone. 

Rhaegar had gone on a day hunt with an entourage of his important lords, and little baby Arra was running a fever so Ashara and Brandon were busy. Benjen and Ned were hunting with Rhaegar, and Lyanna wanted nothing to do with her other ladies-in-waiting this morning. _Especially_ Cersei Lannister, the conniving little coveteur that she was. 

And so, with no destination in mind and no one to report to, Lyanna roamed the castle freely, memories of her time there before leaving for Dragonstone rushing back to her in brief flashes - the fitting of her wedding dress, playing with Viserys, the Mad King's eyes crawling over her dress, Rhaegar taking her maidenhead in his bath, him making love to her before he left for the Rock...

She realized now that that was what they had done. Made love. She hadn't known it then, hadn't known it even in Winterfell, but she understood now, for all the pain that came with the realization. _I love him_ , she thought to herself with tears blurring her eyes, _it hurts my heart, but gods help me, I'm in love with him._

"Lyanna?"

The voice nearly stopped her heart. Lyanna whipped her head up in surprise, jerking to a stop. With no aim and blind eyes, her feet had taken her deep within the Maegor's, all the way to Rhaella's room. 

The dowager queen's door was wide open this morning and Rhaella had stood from her table, little Dany nestled against her in a bundle of red blankets. The length of Rhaella's silver hair gleamed brighter than the fresh morning sun, stunning against the purple cloth of her dress, and her skin was glowing like a moonstone. Fresh motherhood certainly became her. 

"My dear," she urged, "come in, come in." And when she smiled, it was like clouds parting. In her arms, Daenerys shifted and gurgled. 

Lyanna's heart pounded furiously as she ghosted inside, her eyes taking in the room. The last time she had been in Rhaella's chambers had been the morning of _that_ day...the day the Mad King had died and Lyanna had lost her little girl. She tried her very best to will her tears away, but a few spilled down her cheek. 

Rhaella's smile was gentle when she invited Lyanna to sit for breakfast, kindly ignoring her show of tears. "I feel like I've yet to spend any time with you at all since your return," she said, rocking Daenerys. "I've _missed_ you, darling girl."

"I've missed you as well," Lyanna said softly, honestly. Rhaella had come to be like a mother to Lyanna in those early months of her marriage to Rhaegar, always offering support and kindness, but now...it felt like sitting with a stranger. Lyanna's heart longed for Rhaella's love once more. 

"You were gone too long." Though Rhaella's voice was soft, her words were accusatory, and those purple eyes gleamed sharp. 

"It was good to be home," was all Lyanna said back, feeling guilty. She looked down at her lap and fidgeted with her hands, restless. The energy that rushed through her was dying to be expelled, but there was no way to use it, as if it was destined to be bottled in her veins for a lifetime. 

It was quiet for a long time after that, the silence so tense, Lyanna felt as if she would be sick all over the table. When Rhaella finally did say something, it made Lyanna flinch. "Would you like to hold her?" 

Lyanna's eyes flashed up, meeting Rhaella's quickly before dropping to the little princess. Immediately, her mind filled with wondering thoughts about her own lost girl, _Rhaella_ she had been named post-mortem in honor of her grandmother. She would have been silver-haired, too, Lyanna knew, with Rhaegar's eyes and Rhaegar's beauty. Her heart ached fiercely. 

Lyanna didn't know if she could handle holding that little girl, didn't know if her heart could withstand it. And yet, she nodded slowly, scared out of her mind, keeping her eyes trained on the tiny babe even as Rhaella stood up and came over, gently shifting Daenerys from her own arms to Lyanna's.

The little babe was so slight in her hold, weighing hardly anything, but surprisingly warm, even through the blankets. Lyanna stared down at her lovely face in wonderment, completely transfixed by her beauty - soft silver hair and bright purple eyes... Whomever married this little dragon when she grew up was lucky. 

"Stunning," Lyanna breathed. 

Rhaella chuckled. "She is. I'm only glad she will never know her father."

Lyanna's heart lurched but she did not look up, too mesmerized by the little life in her arms. She rocked Dany gently, smiling when she yawned, those unnerving eyes glassy. _My Rhaella would have looked like you, sweet thing_ , Lyanna thought to herself. Her tears returned. 

It was as if every fear and insecurity had rushed to a head, waiting to burst from her heart in a rush of pain. She bit her lip to keep the sadness at bay. 

...But she had never been good at keeping her mouth closed around Rhaella. "He's going to marry someone else," she blurted out without warning. Her chest stung just to say the words aloud. 

When she glanced up, Rhaella was already staring back. She gave Lyanna a sad smile that had no happiness in its curve, nodding gently. "Maybe so, lovely girl. Though is not for me to decide."

Lyanna shuddered, shifting to hold Daenerys closer to her. The little babe had a calming presence, and the heat Lyanna gleaned from her blankets was as warm as the kitchens. Rhaella had given her the truth when all she wanted was a comforting lie. "I..." She swallowed tears. "I don't want him to."

Rhaella sighed and ghosted forward, coming to press a maternal kiss to Lyanna's forehead. "Sweetheart, do not let this tear your heart apart. Even if he does marry another, you will still be queen. You will still be his wife."

Lyanna's tears were warm on her cheeks, making tracks down her skin. "I don't care about being queen," she whispered honestly. "I just want him." _I'm in love with him_ , she thought as a knife twisted in her heart. 

"You would still have him," Rhaella pointed out, trying to calm her with a soothing hand through her dark hair. 

Lyanna shook her head, face crumpled in pain. Daenerys looked up at her with eyes like two amethysts. Lyanna said, "I would never want to be with a man who was crawling between another woman's thighs when he was not with me." _I am selfish, and I could not stand to see a child with his face that wasn't mine._

Rhaella was quiet after that, struck silent. How many mistresses had she dealt with in her time? How many women had the Mad King fucked behind her back? Rhaegar was not his father by any means, but he was a king and he had no heirs of his own seed.

Lyanna wished more than anything in the world that they could make another babe together, a boy perhaps. A boy with Rhaegar's stunning eyes and the spirit of ice and fire. _I'm not his ice_ , she corrected her thoughts, looking out over the room.

The sun burned through the window pane, spilling golden light over the floors. Lyanna imagined that in Winterfell it was snowing, white blanketing the grounds and godswood. She ached for home. She ached for Rhaegar. 

"I think I'm going to wake my brothers now," Lyanna murmured, smiling a watery smile at Rhaella before going to shift the little babe back to her mother's arms. The lie felt like poison in her throat, and she sent a prayer to the gods Rhaella did not find out Ned and Benjen were off in the kingswood with Rhaegar. 

"Are you sure?" Rhaella asked, taking Dany carefully. "Breakfast should be arriving soon. And I'd love to see your coronation dress." 

Although feeling absurdly guilty, Lyanna lied. "I'd like to spend time with Ned and Benjen before they leave for home once more. Perhaps I can show you my dress later, or in the morning before we leave for the Great Sept."

Rhaella smiled sadly. "Of course, dear. Whenever you want." 

Lyanna nodded, grateful. She could hardly bear to look at Rhaella for another second; her son's beauty was writ all over her, and it was difficult to think on how beautiful Rhaegar was with the impending doom of a second bride hovering over her head. 

She went forward to kiss Rhaella lightly on each cheek, then stepped back. With little Dany held safely by Rhaella's arms, Lyanna felt safe to run a single finger down the baby's pale, perfect cheek. "So beautiful," she said again.

"You can visit her any time you'd like," Rhaella offered with a hopeful smile. "Viserys, too. He missed you very much while you were away. He has an entire slew of new dragon stories to tell you."

Lyanna sniffed and gave her a small smile back, chuckling through her tears even though happiness was the last thing in her heart. "I should like that." She dipped her head in respect. "I shall see you in the morning."

And with that she swept away and out of Rhaella's chambers, letting the tears fall freely once she was alone.

* * *

The afternoon burned scarlet as the sun died on the horizon, casting its ruby light over King's Landing like a fall of blood. The air was cold and the wind had teeth, sinking its chill into Rhaegar's cheeks with an icy bite. Underneath his leathers, his skin prickled with goosebumps, and around him the yard was filled with the noise of the rest of the royal hunting party returning. 

"Stark!" Lord Robert Baratheon called as he jumped down from his massive chestnut horse, pale cheeks blazing red. The Stormlord had nearly drowned himself in wine that day, drinking five skins all on his own, and yet still remaining on his steed. "Is this as bad as Winterfell?" He held his hands out to the brisk wind, raising his black beard to the sky. 

Ned, who was handing off his reins to a stableboy, looked over and smiled. "Everything is harsher in the North," he called back. 

Robert laughed boisterously, shaking his head. "I don't know how that prick of yours doesn't just fall right off." His laugh turned to a mischievous grin. "Though if I had your woman, I'm sure my cock would be well and fine, too."

 _And to think, my wife was almost yours_. Rhaegar rolled his eyes and dismounted, leaving his horse and his men behind as he strode away to the peace of the stables. 

The day had been so long, _too long_ , the hunt beginning with the rising sun and ending only when all the wine had been exhausted and all the game chased away or killed. He'd taken with him Ned and Benjen, Lord Robert (against his wishes), Mace Tyrell, Ser Brynden Tully and his nephew, Edmure, and several other lords that would swear their fealty alongside the rest of the realm on the morrow. Rhaegar wasn't sure if he dreaded the coronation, or anticipated it. 

At the stables, hands were rushing about, fetching food and hay and water, some being dispatched to the yard, others being ordered to the stalls. A passing stablehand stopped and knelt respectfully. "Your Grace, how may I serve you?"

Rhaegar bid the boy to stand and asked, "Could you point me to my wife's horse please? Smoke." He dug in his breeches pockets, feeling for the sugar cubes he'd left there. 

"'Course, Your Grace," the boy said. "The last stall down this row," he pointed left, "but Her Grace is already there."

Rhaegar's heart jumped. He'd not seen his wife in almost a full day, and the effects of that on his heart and body were troublesome. He'd left her alone after the tourney's end like a jealous fool. "Queen Lyanna is here?" 

The boy nodded vigorously, happy to apparently have sparked the king's interest. "Yes, Your Grace. She was talking 'bout going to the Sept, she was. She's been back with the horse for an hour or so now."

Rhaegar felt his breath come short, his mind dizzy. Why would Lyanna have need to go to the Great Sept? She did not practice the Faith of the Seven. Confused and with a great many questions, he went to his other pocket, fishing out a golden dragon and flicking the coin to the boy. "Thank you." When he went down the left row of stable halls, the boy's thanks rang after him excitedly. 

With night falling fast, the stables were cast in an eerie crimson light, only a few torches glowing gold because the horses were skittish around fire. He walked and walked, past hands feeding the horses and hands brushing them, all the way down until the very end where the last stall was left open and red light spilled through the slats of wood. He approached it slowly, listening to the soft voice that came from within. 

"Aren't you a beautiful boy," he could hear Lyanna coo, followed by the sound of harsh crunching. Lyanna laughed, the sound of it rising through the air. "Greedy thing."

Rhaegar crept closer. In the dimness, he could see that she had her hand to Smoke's mouth, the blue-grey horse nibbling apples right out of her palm, tickling her skin with its velvetine lips. Rhaegar chuckled without meaning to, watching in amused fascination as Lyanna jumped in fright, whirled, and dropped the rest of her apple slices to the ground. 

Lyanna gasped, her eyes wide and strangely bright. "You _scared_ me," she accused Rhaegar breathlessly, scowling angrily with a hand over her heart. Her throat contracted when she swallowed, the skin glimmering pale silver where her scars were, where a rope noose had bit her skin. 

Rhaegar grinned, pleased with himself. "I am sorry for that." He wasn't. He raised a brow and came fully into the stall, approaching both her and Smoke slowly like the skittish animals they were. 

Lyanna watched him warily, her eyes following his every move. "What are you doing here?" She murmured. 

Rhaegar came even closer and brushed his hand over Smoke's wavy mane, plucking it through his fingers. "I just returned from my hunt." He dug into his pocket with his free hand and then held out his fingers. "And I wanted to give Smoke sugar cubes." The horse eagerly went for his treats, tickling Rhaegar's skin in the process. 

"Oh," Lyanna mouthed, carefully avoiding eye contact with him. She went to Smoke's side, grabbed a brush, and began to run it over his coat. 

Jaime's words from the night before suddenly came back to Rhaegar's mind like a punch to the gut, nearly taking away his breath with the force of the remembrance. _She was afraid you would shame her if you'd won. She thought you might give the crown to my sister, because she hears the rumors of you taking another wife._

Rhaegar looked up sharply. He yearned to confront her, but feared that he had no idea how. How could he ease her mind, her fears? He was a man without answers. 

So, lacking boldness in the moment, he offered instead, "You look beautiful." And she really did, in her silk tunic and brown leather leggings tucked into her riding boots. He loved her in riding gear. 

Lyanna hid her smile by ducking her head, her cheeks blazing like the sunset. "I'm wearing riding leathers," she pointed out unhelpfully, as if that would somehow change his opinion. 

"I know," he told her, grinning mischievously. "I quite enjoy looking at you in them." He came around to stand beside her where she was still brushing Smoke. 

She stiffened at his proximity but made no effort to move away. "Well," she dragged the word out, "thank you then."

They had nothing else to say after that and so they stood in silence for a long time - long enough that Lyanna made Smoke's coat gleam like a mirror and the sky finally turned from red to black. The stables seemed so, so quiet, not even the sound of the stablehands reaching their ears. Rhaegar lifted his hand hesitantly and slid it across Lyanna's side, her heat burning his hand _so good_. 

"Lyanna," he murmured, his voice pained. Just touching her through her shirt made him weak in the knees. He couldn't imagine what her naked skin would do to him. 

Lyanna turned her head slowly, looking at him over her shoulder. "Yes?"

Rhaegar looked into her eyes, wanting to root out every sadness living there, every fear and insecurity she had until she was happier than she had ever been before. He wanted to go back in time, before they had lost their baby, before they had lost their budding happiness. "I wouldn't have shamed you," he said suddenly, without meaning to, the words spilling from his lips. 

Lyanna froze and her eyes went wide as eggs. "Where did you-" She stopped, realization dawning. "What are you even talking about?" She demanded, her shaking hands belying her faked ignorance. 

"The tourney," he said softly, stepping closer. "Ser Jaime told me what you feared. But you had no cause to worry. If I had won, I would have crowned you. No one else. Just you." He licked his lips. "Why-" He took a deep breath. "Have I ever given you a reason to think I would have humiliated you?"

Lyanna's chin began to quiver and she looked away quickly, going to caress Smoke once more, but Rhaegar grabbed her hands roughly, threw down the brush, and turned her to look at him. 

She narrowed her eyes and pushed him back. Her words were whipcracks. "I know what your advisors say about me, I know what they call me. 'The Barren Queen.' I know that they urge you to take Cersei Lannister to wife so that you can fuck her and get your child on her. _I hear everything._ , Rhaegar, everything.

"So, yes, I assumed you would shame me. Because you're a king and I'm not the only thing in your life anymore. This realm is your priority now, and you need children, and I can't give you those. No matter how much I wish I could, I can't." Tears began to spill down her cheeks. "I know what's coming, so I was preparing myself."

"What's coming," Rhaegar repeated, his chest pounding from his heartbeat. 

"You're going to marry someone else."

Rhaegar shook his head violently. "I'm not going to, I won't." He took her face in between both of his hands, and kissed her roughly. "I said vows to you that I intend to keep. I will never marry another woman. _You_ are my wife. Now and forever."

"You have no heirs, Rhaegar," Lyanna protested against his mouth. "A king must have heirs." 

" _Viserys_ is my heir." Rhaegar swallowed, the magnitude of his decision coming to rest on his shoulders. "I...don't need any children. I don't need another heir."

Lyanna jerked back, blinking. "But...your prophecy, your promised prince. The dragon must have three heads."

Rhaegar clenched his jaw, willing away how _wrong_ it felt to give up his prince, his children, that dark-haired boy he had used to dream of...but nothing would be more wrong than marrying someone else. 

"I don't care," he said. "I don't care about the prophecy if you are not a part of it." He looked deeply into her eyes, trying to convey how serious he was. "Perhaps the Promised Prince was not even of my seed. I will never think about that prophecy again. It's you and me, together. Viserys is my heir and you are my wife, do you understand?" He needed her to understand. 

Lyanna's lips parted in disbelief, her chest heaving. "Truly?"

Rhaegar swallowed and brushed his lips against hers again, the heat of it rocking through him. "I am deadly serious." He kissed her one more time before releasing her chin from his grasp. 

Lyanna stared up at him in equal parts awe and wariness, as if she were scared this was all an elaborate trick. "Why?" She expelled a breath. "Why would you give up your children? Your prophecy?"

Rhaegar's heart shattered and along with it, the image of that dark-haired boy with Lyanna's coloring and _his_ eyes. "Because," he asserted, the cold realization of what he was giving up settling over him like a blanket of ice, "you are mine. And I," he took a shaky breath, "am forever yours."


	66. The Coronation

Snow stretched from horizon to horizon, reaching farther than the eye could see in a vast blanket of glittering white. Above, the sun had gone to hide its face behind a veil of grey winter clouds, but every so often a ray of light would emerge to shine down upon the massive wall standing at Lyanna's back, turning the barrier of ice into miles and miles of glittering diamonds. 

Lyanna, breathless, could scarcely believe its beauty after so many years. As a child of the North, she'd been fed on tales of the magnificent Wall of the Night's Watch, had been taught of its history and of the magic behind its making. She had even beheld its splendor once or twice, when she and Benjen had been allowed to ride with Father to visit the Night's Watch in their black castle at the Wall's base. So long ago those trips had been, she barely remembered them. 

But the Wall...she remembered the Wall. Remembered the way it jutted up from the ground like a curtain of crystal, how it had wept sheets of rainbow tears when the sun deigned to bear down it. She remembered the cool, clean air that had nearly taken her breath away, and the frontline of forestry that stood beyond the Wall's reach. 

It watched her now, the forest. Dark and foreboding, it was thick and wild and menacing in its secrets. Haunted. Lyanna's throat went dry and her heart set to drum like the beat of a thousand blacksmiths' hammers. 

The trees of the forest thrust into the sky, skinny as spears and ten times as tall, with an ominous darkness beyond, but they did little to conceal the white shape stalking through their trunks. 

The beast slunk with an unnatural predatory gait, the pale hue of its coat blending in with the winter world surrounding it. The wolf came slowly from the forest - no, that wasn't a wolf, Lyanna realized, it was much too small. 

This _creature_ was massive, larger than even a small horse, with jaws that could wrench her arms from her body as easily as she could chew meat. No, it wasn't a wolf. It was a _direwolf_ , and yet, Lyanna did not fear. 

The direwolf was the symbol of her House, as it had been for centuries; the direwolf had been sigil of the Starks and the Kings of Winter since the Age of Heroes - since Brandon the Builder and King Torrhen and King Jon. She was safe. Just as dragons were the monsters to the Targaryens, direwolves were for the Starks. 

The direwolf stalked toward Lyanna on easy paws, padding in silence through the snow. Its nose ran along the ground, sniffing at the cold, but when it reached her, it stopped. Then it raised its head. 

Lyanna went breathless. The wolf's eyes were red. Red as blood, red as hot coals, red as the dragon of Rhaegar's House, with fur as white as the field of Stark banners. 

Lyanna sank to her knees in the snow, ignoring the way the cold soaked through her dress and bit her skin. She held a hand out. "Come here," she whispered in a stream of pale breath, studying the creature. "Here, boy."

The direwolf watched her, studied her, those hot red eyes both unnerving and comforting. Then, without a noise, it closed the short distance between them and knocked its head against her fingers. She smiled. 

"That's a good boy," she murmured, tangling her fingers through its thick velvet fur. "Good boy."

The silk dress she wore was soaked completely through, making Lyanna shiver and shake, but the wolf butted against her, sharing its velvet warmth along her bare arms. And every so often, it would run its rasping tongue across her skin, making her giggle. 

She was just scratching the wolf beneath its jaw when a voice came from behind her. "Mother?" It was somehow both soft and hard as iron, the tone of the word sweet and childlike. 

Startled, Lyanna shot to her feet and whirled around to face the stranger that had approached; the wolf had left her to stand by the stranger's side, watching Lyanna's reaction with those hot red eyes. 

For a moment the sun came out and blinded her, turning the stranger into a long shadow, but then it passed behind a cloud and her eyes cleared. She realized that the shadow was no shadow at all, but a boy. A boy whose mere image made her heart ache queerly in her chest. 

The boy was taller than any average man, several inches over six feet if she had to guess. The shape of his face was narrow, thin, and long, the Stark look stamped all over him in that pale skin, dark hair, in the curve of his cheekbones and the thin line of his nose. He reminded her of all three of her brothers at once. 

But...

It was his eyes that made Lyanna frown, that made her throat tight. 

The boy had _Rhaegar's_ eyes. 

He stared at her right back, but where curiosity filled her gaze, only a comforting familiarity colored his. "Mother," he tried again, more insistent, pouting the tiniest bit. 

Lyanna's frown deepened and she shook her head, strangely breathless. "N-no," she stuttered. "I'm no one's mother. I'm Lyanna, of House Stark."

The boy stood frozen, a melancholy passing over him. He opened his mouth again, but instead of 'mother' coming out, all he said was, "Your Grace?"

Lyanna blinked, taken aback. How did he know her title? 

"Your Grace," the boy said again, "Your Grace, Your Grace, Your Grace, Your Grace..."

Lyanna opened her eyes, gripped with panic for three long moments as she stared into an abyss of black satin above her. As she woke, the dream slipped from her mind as easy as water through open fingers. Her heart slowed from its hammering, and as she slowly forgot the dream - it disappearing from her grasp - it still left her chest with a sad aching. What had she dreamed?

A boy! A white wolf. A boy...

"Your Grace?"

Lyanna sat up straight in bed, startled, Rhaegar's arm still banded around her naked torso. The blankets fell away with her sudden movement and exposed her breasts to the bedmaid that stood beside the bed. 

The girl's eyes went as wide and white as eggs. "Your Grace," she said again, softly now, avoiding with all her might the sight of Lyanna's chest, "we must ready you for the ceremony."

For a moment, Lyanna did not understand. "Ceremony?"

The maid nodded. "The coronation, Your Grace."

"Ah," Lyanna sighed, exhausted suddenly. Just the prospect of the day tired her thoroughly. Nighttime and Rhaegar's bed would be far away once she climbed out, she knew. Through the windows, the sun spilled gold across the floors. 

Lyanna turned to admire Rhaegar beside her, still sleeping soundly, bare from the waist up. The blankets covered the rest, but Lyanna knew that everything else was naked as well. After the stables the night before when Rhaegar told her there would never be a second queen for him, _only her_ , he'd brought her back up to his chambers and fucked her slowly on his bed. Thrice they'd coupled before both succumbed to sleep. 

Hesitantly, she lifted a shaking hand and ran it through his silver strands, reveling in the softness. Then, she climbed from bed fully nude, leaning into the silk robe the maid offered her. She knotted the flimsy belt around her waist and went to the door. 

A second maid stood by, stiff and tiny and wide-eyed as the other. "Shall we wake the king now?" She murmured.

Lyanna looked back over at her shoulder, smiling softly at the peaceful expression on her husband's face. "Don't wake His Grace just yet," she said. "Let him sleep a little longer. He...worked hard last night."

* * *

The morning went by in a flash. First, the servants drew her a bath of the hottest water they could find, and scrubbed her until she glowed and her skin was pink. Then they trimmed her nails, dabbed her with scented oils, brushed out her hair, and brought out her smallclothes while her hair dried. 

While she waited, Ashara came to keep her company, bringing with her fruits and cheese and a decanter of spiced Dornish red. Ashara looked utterly exhausted, her skin pale and purple crescent moons beneath her eyes. 

Lyanna frowned. "Are you alright?"

Ashara nodded, climbing up on Lyanna's bed and lounging beside her. "Yes, but the baby is not well. She keeps Brandon and me up all night long with her coughing and crying. Her skin flames hot."

Lyanna sat up in alarm. "Will she be alright? Has a maester tended to her yet?" She couldn't bear for Brandon's babe to perish, too. 

Ashara said, "Ned has given us leave to call Maester Luwin to the capital. Luwin traveled to the Citadel immediately after we left for King's Landing, to pick up more supplies, so he is not so far away. I thought that calling him to us was a bit extreme, but Brandon insists that he does not trust the Grand Maester, or any assistant of the man's. Ned sent the summons out to Oldtown this morning. Luwin should arrive very quickly."

That comforted Lyanna, though Arra's sickness still weighed on her mind. "Won't that be too late? What if she worsens before Luwin can make it here?"

"If she worsens, I will insist on a maester here. Brandon won't object, even if he's stubborn. Maester Luwin was who helped Arra in her first sickness at Winterfell, though. Brandon trusts the man."

Lyanna nodded, popping a grape into her mouth. "I understand." It would be good to see the quiet, kind maester of Winterfell again. Luwin had proved to be a worthy man, and a killer opponent at a Dornish game called cyvasse that he'd introduced her to. For one wild moment, she fantasized about stripping that idiot Pycelle of his office and giving the title of Grand Maester to Luwin instead. Just the thought of Pycelle's horror made Lyanna smile. 

When her hair dried, the maids came back and one began to weave an intricate braid while the other attached the small stems of red rose heads to pins. Then, they pinned those through her braid, so that her long brown hair was alive with red. 

She pulled on her stockings next and shed her robe, and waited as the maids brought her dress up from where the seamstresses had delivered it. Queen Rhaella had personally commissioned Lyanna's coronation gown, having had it started months ago while Lyanna was still in Winterfell. Rhaella had hired the same group of seamstresses that had done Lyanna's wedding gown, citing it was good luck. 

After the maids came back and helped to dress her in it, Lyanna turned to see herself in the mirror and nearly crumpled to the ground.

The gown was ivory brocade, tight in the chest that ran off her shoulders and across the cleavage, flaring out into full bell-shaped skirts from her waist. The points of her dagged sleeves touched the floor when she lowered her arms, and were lined in scarlet silk that flashed like fire. The bodice was tight and boned, pushing up her breasts and baring her shoulders, and embellished with gems in the colors of her Houses: gold-casted rubies for Targaryen and ropes of freshwater pearls along the neckline for Stark.

For the first time in her marriage, Lyanna felt as if she belonged at the dragon's side. 

Ashara squealed in delight, but before she could say anything, there was a pounding at the door. "Get that," Lyanna said absently, turning this way and that to appreciate the gown glittering in the mirror. 

The maid rushed to the door and pulled it open, revealing Ser Arthur and Rhaegar. Not even a moment passed before Rhaegar stepped in and said in a voice like iron, "Give my wife and me the room."

Ashara gave her a loaded look as she and the maids passed, and in just three heartbeats, the entire room was empty save for her and her husband.

Lyanna felt her heart stutter in her chest, felt the blood rushing to her ears like the crash of a great waterfall. Rhaegar stood ramrod straight against the door, a slim six-foot-something figure cut of kingly magnificence. 

With that long fall of hair like liquid silver and eyes like two chips of glittering amythests, Rhaegar looked like some heavenly dragonking come back from lost Valyria in his coronation attire; he'd worn a long tunic of pearly silk tucked into breeches of wool that were as pale as a winter sky. His boots were white as well, high bleached leather with silver dragon studs stamped around the shining steeled toes. 

The long-sleeved doublet he wore was of pale samite, white embossed with a silvery pattern, and over that lay a heavy chain Lyanna had never seen before, the only cut of color - besides his eyes - on him: pure gold inlaid with rubies and pearls, each link a roaring dragon that swallowed the tail of the monster before it.

"You," he said, pushing off the door and stalking toward her like the great white direwolf in her dream, "look like a queen."

"And you a king," she returned sincerely, strangely breathless. 

When Rhaegar reached her, he took both her hands in his. His eyes seemed to roam over her wildly, taking everything in - from her skirts to her bodice to the bare column of her neck to the red roses pinned to her braid. His voice was a breath when he spoke again. "Your father would be proud of you, Lyanna."

Instantly, tears sprung to her eyes. Her throat began to burn and her hands shook as an image of her father came to mind, strong and bearded and dressed in furs. "Thank you."

Rhaegar's finger lifted her chin when she ducked her head. Even his frown was beautiful. "Are you nervous?"

Lyanna took a deep breath and nodded. "I am. It...feels like our wedding day all over again." Only then, her father was at her side and she hadn't wanted Rhaegar. Now, she was in love with him. 

To her surprise, Rhaegar smiled. "No," he said, "I was far more nervous on our wedding day." He ran his teeth over his bottom lip quickly, grinning at some memory. 

"You _were_?" She hadn't expected that answer. Rhaegar had seemed cold and strong on their wedding day, apathetic almost. But not nervous. 

"I was. I felt sick all morning, I was shaking there in the sept, standing across from you beneath the Mother and Father. I," he paused, raising those deep purple eyes to hers. "But I knew I was supposed to be yours."

Lyanna's heart went berserk in her chest, raging. She swallowed and stepped forward to press a kiss to his jawbone. Last night's conversation came back to her in a rush as she pressed her nose to his throat, all the pretty words and promises. 

But instead of feeling comforted, all she felt was unease. Unease because something was off, something wasn't _right_. But she kept that to herself. For now, she would revel in Rhaegar's presence and keep her black doubts to herself.

Rhaegar held her for a few moments before drawing back, sliding his hands up her neck to cradle her face. "When all this is done," he murmured, "when all the chaos has died down, I want to take you away. Just me and you."

"Away?" She repeated. 

Rhaegar nodded. "I want to take you to the Isle of Faces. I want to marry you again before the Old Gods. I want to marry you again, _your way_. I want our lives to be as inextricably twined as possible." He bent forward to kiss her lips. "I want to marry you again."

"Truly?" She could hardly believe what she was hearing, an echoing answer to the insolent thoughts she'd had on the day of their wedding - how she hadn't considered herself to be truly married to him since they did not vow themselves before a heart tree. 

"Truly," Rhaegar said. "I want to show you how much you mean to me, and if that means I have to get on my knees before a weirwood and swear myself to you, I'll do it. I will do _that_ for you."

That moment - that _beautiful_ moment - seemed as good a time as any to tell Rhaegar she loved him, to kiss him and admit that her heart was his for however long he wanted it, but...

...those black doubts came back in a terrifying rush and stole those three words from her tongue. It wasn't right, something wasn't right. Instead, she tried a smile and nodded her consent. 

Rhaegar smiled back, none the wiser of the pandemonium being unleashed in her mind, and tangled their fingers together. "So...are you ready to become a queen?"

Half distracted by the doom settling over her, Lyanna nodded. "I'm ready."

Rhaegar raised his chin and looked down on her. "Then let us go so we can be crowned."

* * *

The carriage they rode from the yard in was ornate and fashioned special, used for years by kings and princes of old, with massive gilded wheels and no top so that the commons who gathered the streets could witness their royals. 

The people came out in the hundreds, packed together on either side of the road like a wall of flesh. Eagerly, they elbowed each other out of the way, and hung from windows, and stood on rooftops to wave and cheer. Men and maidens called out their blessings, and children threw flower petals beneath the carriage wheels. 

Lyanna and Rhaegar's names were called out in celebration, followed by proclamations of good fortune and good health and a long rule to follow. Lyanna could hardly believe it all, sitting next to her dragon, a company of Gold Cloaks and Kingsguards surrounding them, escorting them through the maze of King's Landing to that magnificent crystal dome of the Seven.

When they reached the marble plaza of the Great Sept, the Gold Cloaks spread out to keep back the pulsing crowds. The Kingsguards encircled the carriage and flanked Rhaegar and Lyanna as they stepped out onto the plaza, turning to wave at the people. Lyanna took it all in, her heart pounding, wondering if somewhere out there was her old friend, Beth, and her baby and her orphans. 

Rhaegar came to put a hand on the small of her back and leaned close. "Are you alright?" Behind him, Jaime had noticed her expression, and frowned, studying her. 

She nodded with wide eyes, panting, trying to get her breathing under control. There were so many people, so much noise, and she was in love with her husband, and he wanted to marry her again before her gods, but it didn't _feel_ right. Something was wrong. 

"If you start to feel nervous at any time," Rhaegar murmured into her ear, "just look at me."

She did, she looked at him. He stared right back, intense, unwavering. "I won't let you falter. I won't let you fall." He took her hand in his. "Do you trust me?"

The cheering of the commons were waves of white noise, crashing over her until all she knew was buzzing ears and hammering hearts. "I trust you."

He smiled and sent one last wave to the crowd. "Come, Your Grace, it is time for us to be crowned."

Lyanna didn't remember leaving the marble plaza, didn't remember entering the sept or gliding through the Hall of Lamps. She didn't remember Rhaegar reminding her of when to walk, she didn't remember the great doors opening to reveal the sept within and the hundreds of nobles that had come to see them crowned. 

One moment the commons were shouting, and the next she was walking into the Great Sept's seven-sided room, each wall adorned with a different figure of the Faith. Stranger, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, Mother, Father.

The room was awash in light - red yellow green blue purple - streaming through the crystal dome to paint rainbows on the floor. Rhaegar walked ahead of her through the two sides of noblemen and women, as was the tradition, and made it first to the altar where the High Septon stood, garbed in white and gold and crystal. 

Lyanna searched desperately for her father, only to remember that he was gone, he was dead. Her eyes filled with tears. The last time she had been in this place had been for the funeral and burning of her baby girl, Rhaella. So long ago, it had been so long...she'd meant to visit her babe last night, but Rhaegar had caught her in the stables before she could and carried her off to make love to her. 

Brandon and Ned and Benjen, though, they were there. Ashara, too, but Arra was in the care of her caretaker. Across the aisle, there was Rhaella, beaming proudly at Lyanna when they met eyes, and in her arms, little Daenerys. Viserys was at their sides, dressed in red and black and wearing a circlet of silver. He waved excitedly to Lyanna, jumping on his toes. 

His happiness made Lyanna's heart lighter, if only for a moment. Then she reached Rhaegar and the High Septon, and she went deaf to the world. 

She couldn't have repeated what words the High Septon said, didn't hear a thing, she only saw. Saw him speaking over the room, dipping his hands into a bowl of water before sprinkling it over Rhaegar's downturned head. Lyanna was beckoned forth and made to kneel beside her husband, and then the same was done to her, the water as warm as Rhaegar's hands as it dripped onto her scalp. 

Then the High Septon turned away, going to grab something from a pillow before coming back to where they knelt. Light burst from his hands as a ray of sun bore down through the dome overhead, nearly blinding Lyanna from her spot on her knees. "Remain kneeling," the High Septon told Rhaegar as he approached.

Up close, she saw what was in the septon's hands, beheld its magnificence as he spoke again, louder now, and placed it over Rhaegar's bowed head. Then Rhaegar stood and faced his subjects, and the sun above dappled him and his crown in splendor. His was a new crown never before worn by his ancestors, commissioned from Essos by the finest jeweler in all the world - it was a hard crown cut completely and utterly of crystal, with seven spikes, and faceted so that every time he turned his head, a thousand rainbows turned with him. 

"Behold," the High Septon boomed, "Rhaegar Targaryen the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

The nobles answered back, "Long live the king!"

Lyanna raised her eyes at the exact time Rhaegar looked down on her. In his pale livery and crystal crown, he seemed too beautiful for this world, too beautiful to be hers. He graced her with a smile as a young boy in a white-and-gold robe knelt at Rhaegar's side, holding up the velvet pillow in his hands. 

Nestled atop the pillow was a second crown. A crown made of mother of pearl, surmounted by nine spikes that were rimmed with rose gold; adorning each of those spikes was a five-pointed leaf inlaid with rubies, the crown wrought in the likeness of a weirwood tree's pale white trunk and bloody leaves. _A piece of home..._

Lyanna choked back her tears and watched with bated breath as Rhaegar took her crown and came before her. "Lyanna of the Houses Stark and Targaryen," he said, boiling her alive with those indigo eyes, "I, King Rhaegar of the House Targaryen, do so name you Queen of the Seven Kingdoms." He bent forward, smiling brilliantly and triumphantly all the way, and set her Northern crown over the top of her hair. 

And as the cold, heavy weight of her pearl-and-ruby circlet settled over the crown of Lyanna's head, a cold sense of doom settled deep in her heart.


	67. A Cold, Dreadful Miracle

For ten days after the royal coronation, Ned lingered in the capital. He rode horses around the kingswood with Lyanna and Benjen, he sparred in the training yard with Brandon, he spent afternoons with his good-sister and playing with his niece. He soaked in the presence of the family he'd known his entire life. But on the tenth day, he realized it was time to go home to his new family - his lady wife and little son. 

It was raining when Ned and his riding party - a significantly smaller group than what he had initially arrived with - loaded up and mounted in the Red Keep's yard, the grey morning sky weeping hot rain for Lyanna's breaking heart. 

She loathed change. Brandon was her wild wolf, her strength and her boldness; Benjen was her pup, her lifelong playmate and confidant; but Ned...Ned was her quiet wolf, the sense of calm in her chaos, her touchstone when all the world seemed askew. And he was leaving her. 

She did not know what she would do without Ned and his silent grace, his kind grey eyes and the sweet embraces. She had spent every day of the last eight months seeing Ned's face, whether at Winterfell or on the road or at the Red Keep. And now, she wasn't sure when next they'd meet again. 

The few tears that slid from her eyes were instantly washed away by the rain. Rhaegar had begged her not to go out into the muddy, rainy yard, to stay beneath the protective awning instead, lest she catch sickness from the pouring sky. But Lyanna was determined to see Ned off properly. 

And so, she stood next to her brothers while the rain fell down, her boots sinking into the mud while Rhaegar and Ashara and little Arra huddled beneath the awning. Ned checked his saddle one last time and turned to her. 

"I will miss you," Ned said over the soothing noise of the rain. His smile was sad, his grey eyes even sadder. It reminded her of the day he left home for the Eyrie, though he had never complained a word aloud; Ned always knew his duty. 

The rain was spraying against her face, warm as blood and stinging her eyes, but Lyanna impatiently wiped it away, only to have it wash down her skin once more. "Will you write?" Her voice was hopeful. 

Ned's smile turned genuine, amused. "I'm no poet, but for you, I will write every few months." In a sudden movement, he pulled her into his arms, the embrace strong yet gentle. "I love with you all my heart, little sister."

Lyanna nodded into his chest, remembering the last time she had hugged her father after Ned's wedding, the sky over Riverrun an angry grey though no rain had spilled. Her father had smelled like home and snow and every good thing in her life. Ned smelled much the same. 

"I love you, too," she said back in the voice of a girl that was not a queen, not a royal, not even a woman grown. Just a girl who would miss her big brother. 

When they finally stepped apart, Brandon was next to hug Ned, roughly pulling him in and slapping him thrice on the back for emphasis; ever the eldest of their clan, Brandon always had a way of asserting his dominance, no matter the mood. Benjen stepped up next. 

Unlike Ned, Benjen was staying behind in King's Landing. He'd been given his very own chambers in the Red Keep, near to where Brandon, Ashara, and Arra had been situated; as relatives of the queen, her brothers and Ashara and Arra now lived in Maegor's Holdfast, closer to the entrance and farthest away from the nearly finished reconstruction of the king's wing. Benjen was just ecstatic to have his own apartments. 

It had been three days after the coronation when Rhaegar named Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully as the sixth sword of his Kingsguard, watching on in solemnity as Lord Commander Ser Gerold cloaked him in white in a private ceremony before Lord Hoster Tully, men of and loyal to Riverrun, the five other White Swords, and of course the royal family. Afterward, the Kingsguard was left with one final space. 

Rhaegar had bestowed Benjen with a gift. Though not a knight nor a follower of the Faith, Benjen was offered a permanent place in the castle, the full capacity of training under Willem Darry, as well as the tutelage of Ser Gerold and Arthur and Oswell and Barristan the Bold...all so that one day, Benjen could be named the seventh and final sword of Rhaegar's Kingsguard. 

That future offer had sent the small council into a tizzy, Brandon excluded. Jon Connington had declared nepotism, Lord Monford complained of others overlooked, Grand Maester Pycelle had argued for the tradition of only sworn _knights_ serving in the Kingsguard, that no boy or man without the blessing of the Seven had ever been graced with a cloak of white. 

Rhaegar had only to fix the old man with a look to assert his seriousness. And then he'd said that in the Age of Heroes, Symeon Star-Eyes and Serwyn of the Mirror Shield were men of great renown and prowess, and also without the blessing of the Faith of the Seven. If they were good enough to be heroes without a knightship, Rhaegar argued, so was Benjen of House Stark. 

And so, knighted or not, Benjen would one day don the cloak of white as well, and serve his life protecting his good-brother, the king. 

Ned was the only Stark returning to Winterfell. 

"Send my clothes, will you?" Benjen shouted up as Ned put one foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over his horse. "My practice swords, too!"

Ned shook his head, but smiled fondly. "You'd have finer stuff here, but I'll send them anyway."

The rain was cutting harder now, but that was no obstacle for a Northerner; snows and ice were worse than a little bit of water. Ned shouted out a command to his party of riders and watched as they gathered up in the exit. Then he turned in the saddle and looked back at Lyanna. "Little sister," he called, "we shall see each other again soon!"

Then they were gone, pouring from the gates of the dragon's nest fifteen-strong as the heavens shed their woes. At some point, she walked back to Maegor's Holdfast alone, absentmindedly shedding her wet clothes and changing into dry breeches and a velvet tunic, her mind preoccupied. Shaded. Focused entirely on months and months in the past, on a single black tent amongst a field of brightly colored silk. 

_"And you will only ever go home to Winterfell once more in your life."_ It was as if Maggy was in the room with her, the voice in her thoughts was so strong. The fortune's words had not come to Lyanna in so long that she had nearly convinced herself it never happened. But there in her room, Maggy's voice echoing, the thought was a blade between her shoulders. 

How many times after the loss of her baby had she cursed that woman to every hell in every afterlife? How many times had she condemned Maggy the Frog for her deceit and her mummer's show? How many times had Lyanna disparaged the batty crone as a liar and a blood-thief?

Far too many times to count. 

And yet, remembering Ned's parting words in the yard, Lyanna couldn't help but wonder if she would ever see the grey walls of her home again, if those seven months in Winterfell had been the last she would ever know of the North. 

It was a discomfiting prospect at best. She thought about that - and the rest of the fortune - even as the rain cleared and the sun came out for a bit. She thought about it when she passed Brandon and Rhaegar going off to the small council chamber for their meeting, she thought about it as she took Arra away to let Ashara rest properly, Ser Arthur trailing behind them all the way back to her own chambers. 

On her floor, the servants had spread out a thick velvet blanket with several pillows thrown on top. Next to the pallet, there was a tray of mashed food and warm broth for Arra, as well as fruits, water, and summerwine for Lyanna. 

Lyanna ignored the wine (and her thoughts of fortunes and prophecies) and entertained Arra by throwing grapes into the air and catching them between her teeth. And when the babe's rasping cough had her exhausted, those pale eyelids fluttering sleepily over her dazzling purple eyes, Lyanna lay on her side and admired her niece's beauty. 

Arra was the image of her mother - Valyrian eyes like chips of amythest and unblemished skin like strawberries and cream - but she had Stark hair, _Brandon's_ hair, a smattering of chestnut over her pale skin that, coupled with her eyes, promised stunning beauty in her future. 

Dark hair and purple eyes...like the boy in Lyanna's dream the night before her coronation, ten days ago. She could hardly remember what had _happened_ in the dream, but she remembered _him_ \- dark curling hair and dark purple eyes. Lyanna frowned, willing the boy's image away; it would do no good to wish for impossible things, no matter how much her heart ached for him. 

But the boy's image would not go away, nor would that cold sense of unease that had draped her like a cloak every day since her coronation ceremony. _Something is wrong_ , she thought for the hundredth time, _something will be wrong._ Despite the fire roaring in the hearth, Lyanna shivered, wishing idly for a scalding hot bath to wash away her cold doom. That could come later though; right now, her time belonged to her niece. 

Lyanna watched the little babe, and wondered if there would ever be a time when her heart didn't ache at the sight of a baby. She wondered if there would ever be a day as Dany grew up where she didn't want to cry for her own lost silver girl, or when she would look at Arra and not see the boy in her dreams. Would her barren wasteland of a womb be a constant reminder to not only herself, but to others as well? Her beacon of failure. 

_Lyanna, the Barren Queen the people will remember me by_ , she thought angrily, _Lyanna the Broken._

"Did you ever wish for children, Ser Arthur?" Lyanna wondered. The room had been so quiet that when she finally spoke, the baby jumped in fright, her eyelids falling immediately again after; Arra coughed wetly. 

Arthur, who had been watching their niece with a faint, fond smile, darted his eyes to Lyanna. His mouth thinned out and his eyes grew solemn. "No, Your Grace. I always wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard."

"Call me Lyanna," she said under her breath, a habit she had retained since childhood - she and Benjen had loved nothing more than to greet their father's bannermen when they rode into Winterfell's yard, high and mighty on their horses and in their furs. The men had called her _m'lady_ and Benjen _little lord_ until she had insisted they stop; then she was known as _Lyanna the Lord_ and he _Benjen the Bold_ after Ser Barristan. 

It wasn't very queenly, but then again, she had never been meant to be a queen. Only by kismet, a chance encounter in the woods and a crowning of blue roses, did she come into Rhaegar's world, and therefore his marriage bed. 

"Lyanna," Arthur tested on his tongue. He smiled suddenly and, for an instance, his eyes blazed as brilliantly as Arra's...as brilliant as her little Rhaella's might have been if things had gone differently. 

"I never wanted children," Lyanna blurted out, unsure of why she was admitting this at all. And to Arthur no less. It felt like a confession of sorts, one that had been weighing on her chest, a guilt. 

"Never?" Arthur asked. 

Lyanna shook her head. "I never dreamed of my wedding like other little girls, or thought of what to name my children. My mother died when I was very young and I was surrounded by boys and men..." She trailed off, momentarily going to Winterfell in her mind, replaying a thousand memories of her youth. 

"Benjen and I," she smiled fondly, "we wanted to join the Night's Watch. We had this plan of cutting off all my hair and dressing me in his clothes so I could pass as a boy. We figured that as long as I peed elsewhere, I'd never be caught. And he would tell my father I ran away to be a wildling." Arthur chuckled and she joined him. "It wasn't a very smart plan."

"No," Arthur allowed with a handsome smile, "but a child's dreams are rarely grounded in reality. And you are Queen now. Surely that has to be better than freezing at the Wall."

Lyanna snorted softly. "In some ways. In others, no." She thought of her lost babe, the dragon that had never been able to spread its wings. "I always knew I would be a lord's wife though, no matter what dreams filled my head. Robert Baratheon was meant to be mine, until the old king decided otherwise and gave me to his prince. 

"I have never been blind to a lady's duties, but children were never something that I longed for. I knew I would have them, of course, but I didn't _yearn_ for them like most girls do." She smiled down at Arra who was peacefully asleep on the blanket, her chubby fingers curled into fists. 

"I didn't want my babe at the beginning. Rhaegar's and my little girl...those first two months, I barely thought of the life thriving in my belly. I just wanted Aerys to be taken down. 

"Until one day, Viserys read me a story from one of his books - a story of the ice dragons. It made me wonder if that's what I was carrying, if that's what I was giving Rhaegar. I was proud. According to legend, ice dragons are mightier than normal dragons." _Ice and fire come together_ , she thought. 

"I am sorry for what happened, Your Grace," Arthur said. "Lyanna," he amended then, quieter, in reprimand to himself. 

Lyanna nodded her acknowledgment. She was sick of feeling sad. She was sick of flinching every time she saw the throne room, of remembering wildfire every time she saw a scorch mark that the servants hadn't been able to scrub or clean out. She was _so sick_ of people looking at her with either pity or disdain - both for losing the royal heir for the new king. 

She was sick of her unease. All she wanted was a shred of happiness not undercut by grief or loss. 

"Do you think Benjen will become a Kingsguard?" She asked suddenly, changing the subject. "Truly?"

Arthur straightened up. "Yes. He shows great promise with sword and lance, and no doubt will excel in the rest. If His Grace wants Benjen, he will have Benjen."

Lyanna grinned. Benjen all in white was a queer image to conjure, but it was right. It fit somehow. "Good. I'm glad. We could use a few Northern swords around here." She stroked Arra's cheek.

Arthur watched her curiously, dark and purple, an echoing vision of his sister and niece...and _that_ boy, the one who had called her Mother in her dream. 

"I would be proud to have Benjen as my sworn brother," Arthur said, "though he may still need a couple more years of training. Kingsguards must be ready at a moment's notice to risk their lives for their kings. It is no safe business."

Lyanna smiled and let out a short breath of laughter. "You may just be right, ser. The North is hard and cold and has no mercy, but the South likes to play its game of thrones." She looked up at him with eyes that shone like polished steel. "I'm not sure which is harder."

* * *

The small council meeting seemed to go on forever, each Master droning on and on about grievances and business and politics and problems. It was enough for Rhaegar to wish he was a peasant. Momentarily. 

Lord Tywin said that the start of a new era of a new king was always the busiest time in the Red Keep, and Rhaegar had no hard time believing such.

When the meeting began, the sky had been grey and falling, and the servants had brought in platters of eggs and bacon and fish, and toasted bread to slap it on, as well as butter and decanters of water and summerwine. 

As the day went on, fruits and cheeses were prepared for the midday meal, as well as thick soups of chicken and vegetables. The meeting went on.

By the time the last member had spoken, the sky was dark and a hundred candles had been lit around the small council chambers, casting an amber glow to every lord's face that crowded his table. Rhaegar felt drained completely, his heartbeat pounding in his temples and his ass aching from sitting on it the entire day with no reprieve. 

"I believe that was all we had planned to discuss," Lord Tywin finally said from down the table, raising his golden brows in question. Behind him, Ser Jaime was still and lifeless as a statue, but Rhaegar caught him flinch every time his lord father spoke. 

It made him wonder what rifts had been created between the lion and his cub when his offer of taking Jaime's white cloak had been rejected. 

"There's one more thing," Rhaegar announced, standing finally. At each of his shoulders was a Valyrian sphinx, stately and gleaming of black marble with hard, piercing eyes of polished garnets. Red and black and Valyrian, like him. 

"Your Grace?" Jon Connington said, though it was Lord Tywin that Rhaegar studied. 

Lord Tywin was calm and still, showing no sign of discomfort though he, too, had been sitting for eight or more hours discussing the kingdoms and lords of Westeros. Tywin's eyes were pale green, flecked with gold, cold and calculating - nothing like the warm summer grass shade of his daughter's, nor the hue of cat in his son's. 

Rhaegar wondered how Tywin would feel knowing his daughter would never wear a crown. 

"I don't want to open a discussion," Rhaegar began, "I only wanted to inform you all personally that I will not be taking a second queen."

The room was immersed in dead silence. Even the flames of the candles seemed to cease their dance for a moment or two, before continuing to sway and burn. 

"Your Grace," Maester Pycelle said slowly, his voice ancient and croaking, "Queen Lyanna is barren. I checked her personally after the incident of the miscarriage. She will never carry another child, I told you on Dragonstone."

Rhaegar cut him a fiery look. Even the reminder of that time on Dragonstone was enough to incense him, and Pycelle's position at Court was shaky at best anymore; Rhaegar could barely stand to _look_ at the man, let alone speak to him. 

"I am well aware of what you said, and know of my wife's...condition. I need no refresher. Nevertheless, I will not be taking another queen."

"Your children," Jon nearly shouted then, accusatory somehow, "your prophecy!"

"Has been put to bed," Rhaegar finished, his patience thinning. Jaime watched his king warily, ever aware and loosening his sword in its scabbard in case he had to cut down the small council one man shorter; Jaime's eyes went to Jon Connington and stayed, a coldness icing his green eyes. 

"What of your heir?" Lord Monford interjected, stroking his chin. "You need a son."

"I have Viserys," Rhaegar said. "I want to make it known that Viserys is my official heir, and will be trained in the studies of such from this point forward."

Lord Tywin's eyes narrowed infinitesimally, but Rhaegar caught it all the same. 

"Your lords will question your strength," Jon objected, shoving his chair back and getting to his feet. "They will wonder about your throne and its safety if you have no children of your body. Your reign, your rule, your _House_ will be called into question and thrust into danger."

"I _said_ that there will be no discussion of this," Rhaegar seethed, blood rushing to his face. A fire roared in his chest, begging for release, like the scream of a dragon's breath. His knuckles itched to hit something. 

"Even Aegon the Conquerer had two queens," Jon said loudly in defiance. "You may be fond of the girl, but Lyanna Stark is no queen!"

Brandon, already fuming, pushed his chair back with a high screeching noise and took two strides to Jon Connington. Jaime stepped between them at one look from Rhaegar and stopped the wild wolf from wrenching the head from the griffin's shoulders. 

"Get out of my way, Jaime," Brandon warned. Every line of his body radiated with rage, a mirror image to Rhaegar's own fury. 

Jaime's eyes found Rhaegar's over Brandon's shoulders. Rhaegar frowned and said, "Brandon, please sit."

Brandon whirled, his grey eyes glittering with fight. "I won't suffer ill talk of my sister, and nor should you!"

"I won't," Rhaegar promised, wanting to rein in his good-brother, but Brandon went on. 

"Your father stole her away from Robert Baratheon," Brandon seethed, "and our father did not fight it. She became your princess and left her family. She gave you her innocence, and bore and bled your child. You should have more respect for her!"

Rhaegar squeezed his eyes closed, willing away the rush of fire that razed his veins. His fingernails dug into the wood of the table where he supported his weight, nearly cracking from the pressure. It would do no good to fight Lyanna's brother, _his_ good-brother; it was Jon's feet that his anger lay at. 

Rhaegar opened his eyes and fixed Jon Connington with a look as hot and cold as fire and winter. "I will not listen as you cut down my wife, _your queen_ , ever again. I will not allow you to speak poorly of her, or to speak of her at all from this day on. Lyanna is, and will forever _be_ , your queen and my wife. Do you understand?" 

Though Rhaegar's voice had been low and even, Jon understood the barely concealed wrath brimming beneath the words. Jaw ticking and eyes narrowed, Jon nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Good," Rhaegar said, sweeping to the door before he became his father and summoned a pyre. At the last second, he stopped to look over his shoulder. "The next time that you speak out against Lyanna, whether in my presence or in the company of others," he promised with clenched teeth and curled fists, "will be the last time you _have_ a tongue."

* * *

Cersei gasped quietly and sank deeper into the alcove outside the small council chambers, shrinking farther into the darkness as King Rhaegar and Jaime swept from the room. Her veins swam with adrenaline and her hands shook with anger, but she willed silence and stillness as the rest of the small council, her father included, poured from the chambers, muttering under their breaths.

No one had known she was there, eavesdropping the entire day of the council's meeting, aching and wishing to move though she couldn't. Ser Barristan had been utterly unaware of her hidden presence, and Ser Oswell, too. It made her feel mighty, but the end of the meeting had cut her legs. 

Rhaegar was staying with his she-wolf and not taking a second wife. The very declaration had made Cersei seethe in rage, made her bite down on her lip to conceal the screech of fury she had wanted to unleash as he told his masters of his wishes. 

No second queen, no children for Rhaegar, Viserys as the heir and future king. Rhaegar couldn't be serious. He had to change his mind. _Cersei_ had to change his mind, though so far he did not seem to respond to beauty nor grace, both of which she had in abundance. 

No, Cersei needed a miracle and now. This waiting was doing her no good. While she stood idly by, waiting for her chance to be the queen, Lyanna had fucked her way into the king's good graces. Cersei had heard the servants gossiping excitedly about the moans constantly coming from the king's bedchamber at night. The servants had stopped talking soon enough when she sent them to her father for punishment. 

But it didn't stop what was happening in the king's bed. The Stark's cunt was gold and had bought her a crown, but the fucking wouldn't last forever. _Couldn't_ last forever. Sooner or later, Rhaegar would tire of what was between Lyanna Stark's legs, and he would yearn for a son. And when that time came, Cersei would be there, ready and waiting. 

But she needed a plan. Or, better yet...a _miracle._


	68. Red

The day was crisp and golden and beautiful, a day for love and fire, a day where nothing could go wrong. 

"I want to leave for the Isle of Faces in a few days," Rhaegar whispered along the column of Lyanna's throat, stroking into her as he gripped the soft swell of her hips. 

"A few days?" She repeated dazedly. "Yes, yes."

He didn't know whether she was saying yes to the Isle of Faces or yes to the thing he did with his hips, but either way he took it as an agreement. "You can wear one of your Northern gowns, and I'll bring the cloak I gave you on our wedding day." He moaned against her skin. "Gods, I can't wait to marry you again."

Lyanna drew in a sudden, sharp breath and balled it in her throat. "I'm so close," she whispered as she curled her fingers through the tangles of his silver hair, canting her hips up desperately to match his lazy thrusts. 

Her pale eyelids fluttered wildly as her peak skirted her reach, her breath stuttering in a staccato pattern. So in love and _so_ turned on by her, Rhaegar couldn't help but bend down and press an open-mouthed kiss to her lips, tasting their sex and sweat mingling on her tongue. 

Then he drew back, took her at the back of one knee, and hooked her leg over his shoulder before quickening his rhythm; the new position, the back of her thigh pressed against his chest, her calf dangling at his shoulder blades, made her gasp in delight. Her moan was so loud that Rhaegar was sure whomever stood guard at his door was getting an earful of their love. 

But the blood rushing through him, the adoration he felt for her, was enough to make him forget about whatever white knight that was likely listening outside. With her leg over his shoulder, he stroked even deeper inside of her, sheathing every bit of himself in her slick heat until he felt like his eyes might roll right out of his head. 

"Yes," Lyanna whispered, her eyes closed and her nails raking lines down his neck, "right there. Don't stop."

Rhaegar bit his lip, trying to hold off his own pleasure so that she could reach her peak first, and tasted blood. He quickened his hips, intentionally grinding into her hard, hitting _that place_ that she always liked touched, over and over, harder and faster...

...until she gasped, froze, and melted all around him. Her cunt tightened hot and wet, pulsing around him until he was sure they shared a heartbeat, bringing him to the edge of some great cliff, and then pushed him over it with her. 

The sheer force of his ecstasy took him by shock, as it always did, bearing down on him like a great tidal wave that had crashed across the world. It was so strong and so good that it _hurt_ , rocking his body with a power that rendered him both paralyzed and mute. 

Rhaegar spilled himself inside her, choking on his own breath, his head and heart in battle. While the pleasure he felt was enough to shatter glass, he couldn't help the twinge in his chest - the twinge he always got when he finished inside her, that sharp pain in his heart when he gave her body his seed, the nagging shard that was twenty-two years in the making that put hooks into his soul and reminded him of his duty. 

He could not help it. 

He was completely, helplessly in love with Lyanna and had readily given up the pursuit of his promised prince, but...that hadn't stopped the dreams, it hadn't killed his belief. He had not stopped believing. He knew, with every ounce of his being, that the savior of the world was meant to be one half of his body, one half of his seed, one half fire. The other half was meant to take root in ice, in _her_. 

But, just as the gods had created it, man destroyed. One terrible day, one horrifying night, and twenty-two years of searching and research and dreams and beliefs had been washed away, bringing the world to a point of no return. 

Perhaps it was not today, nor maybe the next or the next, but there would come a time when summer faded, and autumn turned, and winter would rule the earth with an icy grip until there was nothing left of life but darkness and cold. 

All because of one night, one mad king, and one girl's decision not to go to Dragonstone. 

Rhaegar pushed away the blame, pushed away the morose thoughts trying to build a wall in his head, and rode out the remainder of his high, spilling the very last bit of his seed in Lyanna's sex. Then he rolled off of her and pulled her into his side. 

Her hair was limp with sweat against his skin, her cheeks flushed bright red. Rhaegar ran the back of his hand down her face and frowned. "You're on fire," he murmured in concern, "do you feel alright?"

Lyanna propped up on one elbow and furrowed her brows. "I feel fine." Those cool, grey eyes studied him. "Better than fine actually."

The corners of his mouth quirked up. "Better than fine," he repeated in amusement. 

Lyanna rolled her eyes and sat up to straddle him, every bit of her naked form backlit by the golden morning light spilling in through the window behind her. "My feeling better than fine has nothing to do with _you_ , Your Grace," she said in a faux-haughtily way. 

He grinned, molding his hands to her bare hips. The mixture of his seed and her arousal and their sweat was slick on her sex. " _Nothing_?"

Lyanna bit her lip and circled her hips, meeting his eyes boldly. "Absolutely nothing."

He rolled his eyes playfully. "Fine. Well, back to what I was saying earlier...the Isle of Faces. We'll leave within the week?"

Lyanna looked down on him, that soft smile and sex haze mixing beautifully with her flushed skin. "That sounds perfect."

With her absolutely bare and the morning sunshine creating a golden halo around her head, Rhaegar thought perhaps it was the perfect time to tell her his heart. But before he could, Lyanna climbed off him and slid off the bed. 

Rhaegar sat up. "Where are you going?"

She found his tunic on the floor and slipped it over her head. "I told your mother I would eat with her at noon. I need to bathe. I can't sit with her, smelling of morning sex with her son."

Rhaegar smiled and sat back against the bed, folding his hands behind his head as he watched Lyanna dress. "And after that? Do you have any plans after that?"

Lyanna shrugged. "Maybe I'll go riding. I promised Viserys a few days ago that I would take him out soon."

"I don't want you to leave," he pouted playfully, reaching for her. She smiled and sank into his embrace. "We're supposed to spend the day together."

She pulled away and raised her brows. "Really? You don't have anything to do?"

Chuckling, he said, "There's always something I _could_ be doing, but I won't. Not today. I want to spend my day with you." 

"Truly?" Her eyes narrowed doubtfully. 

Rhaegar scoffed. "You could act less surprised that I want to be with you." 

Her eyes lowered and her cheeks flamed brighter. "So," she murmured as he traced a path down her cheek, "what did you want to do?"

He sat forward and brushed a quick kiss on her mouth. "Would you like to visit Rhaella?"

Lyanna pulled away and frowned. "I already told you I'm eating with your mother soon. Didn't you hear me?"

"Not," he said, "my mother. I meant...our baby. In the sept."

Lyanna blinked and her grey eyes turned to marble, overcome by a sad sheen that reminded Rhaegar of the aftermath of their loss, of the tears and the grief and the misery. Of Dragonstone. 

But Lyanna spilled no tears. "I'd...like that." She dropped her chin briefly, twisting her mouth. "I feel guilty."

Rhaegar frowned. "Why?"

"I haven't been to see her since her funeral," Lyanna admitted, meeting his eyes. "It's been almost a year since...since we lost her, and I haven't been back to see her. I'm a terrible person."

Rhaegar tugged her forward, ignoring that twinge that came back in his chest. "You are not terrible. It's okay to still be hurt. There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about her. When you were gone, at Winterfell, I used to bring her flowers every week, a different kind every time. I would spend hours at her place in the sept."

He swallowed heavily and continued. "I haven't been back since you returned, so let's go together. Today. Go and eat with my mother, and then we'll ride to the sept. Perhaps we can even visit Beth's orphanage after."

Lyanna smiled softly and nodded, kissing him one more time. "That sounds wonderful. I'll come find you when we're finished."

 _I love you_ , Rhaegar thought as she swept away, flashing a smile over her shoulder before she slipped out the door. He kept his thought to himself.

* * *

After her bath, Lyanna found Rhaella in her solar, fussing and frowning over a scowling Viserys. He squirmed in his seat as she touched his face, making noises of irritation in the back of his throat. When he saw Lyanna, he jumped and smiled. 

"Lya!"

Lyanna smiled and strode forward, accepting Rhaella's hug before bending to crouch before Viserys. "Hello, little one."

"Are we going riding today?" Viserys asked, nearly vibrating in his seat. Despite his excitement, Lyanna was acutely aware of the sallow shade to his skin, as well as the shadows beneath his purple eyes. He looked _unwell_. 

"We are," she replied, slipping into the seat next to him. "That is, if it's alright with your mother."

Viserys looked to Rhaella, pouting out his bottom lip. It was the sweetest face Lyanna had ever seen. "Can we, Mother, please?"

Rhaella frowned. "Viserys, sweetheart, you haven't been feeling well all day. Perhaps you should rest after we eat."

Viserys made a sharp noise of sudden anger. "No, that's _unfair_! I never get to do anything fun anymore. All I do is sit inside and learn how to be a king. I don't want to rest and I don't want to learn. I want to ride with Lya!" Tears instantly filled his pretty purple eyes. 

"Vis," Lyanna soothed, reaching over to grab his hand. His skin was flaming hot. "Your mother just wants you to be healthy. You're Rhaegar's heir now, we can't have anything happen to you."

A single tear slid down his cheek. "I'm _fine_." He turned those large purple eyes on his mother. "Please, Mother, please let me go."

Rhaella frowned, and thought it over, studying her son, but eventually nodded. "As long as you try to eat before you go. And you promise to be good for Lyanna."

Viserys nodded desperately. "I promise."

"You're sure you don't mind?" Rhaella asked, looking to Lyanna. 

Lyanna smiled. "Of course not." It was odd, a punishment in a way, now that she was destined never to have a babe of her own, she was surrounded by beautiful little children whom she loved with all her heart. Viserys, Robb, Arra, and Dany, reminders of what could have been. 

_We're going to see Rhaella later_ , Lyanna reminded herself, trying to find some cheer in the situation. But no matter how many times she visited those ashes, her girl was never coming back, would never grow. 

"My stomach hurts," Viserys complained suddenly, sliding from his seat. "I'm going to the privy."

"Hurry, sweetheart," Rhaella said as he went out of the room. She frowned after him, even once he was gone. 

"Is he truly alright?" Lyanna finally asked. There was a cold ball of unease in her chest that she couldn't shake away. 

Rhaella sighed. "He woke late last night complaining of stomach pains, but once I got him to go back to sleep, he was fine. I thought he was sick, but he's insisted he feels better." 

"Hopefully it was just a simple stomachache and nothing more," Lyanna added. "My brother, Brandon's little girl is sick with a fever and a cough. She has been since the coronation, so for two weeks now. It had to have been something brought in from the many guests."

"How sad," Rhaella said softly. "A babe sick for so long is an ill thing." Something bloomed in her face suddenly, a realization. "Has she not been checked by the Grand Maester?"

Lyanna shook her head. "Brandon summoned in the maester of Winterfell. Maester Luwin was in Oldtown at the time, so he should be here any day now." _Any hour, really_ , she thought. 

Rhaella's brows furrowed deeply. "The Grand Maester is at your brother's disposal. Surely he knows that."

Lyanna was struck with the awkwardness of the situation, fidgeting uncomfortably with a seam of her hunting greens; she did not want to say the truth, but she could not lie to Rhaella. "My brother...has a difficult time trusting new people," she tried instead. It wasn't completely a lie, but it wasn't the truth. "Maester Luwin has treated Arra before."

Despite the diplomatic excuse, Rhaella seemed to understand all the same. "Ah," she hummed shortly, twisting her mouth. She looked down at her lap for a moment before meeting Lyanna's eyes head-on. "Lord Brandon does not care for Maester Pycelle."

 _Does not care for_ was putting it lightly, but Lyanna didn't need to go that far. She did not wish to disparage Pycelle in case Rhaella had a care for the man, but she also would not exalt him. "They...have their differences."

Rhaella gave her a soft smile. "You don't need to lie, sweet girl. Pycelle has no great standing in my book."

Lyanna was so surprised that she blurted out, "He doesn't?"

Rhaella shook her head. "It's difficult to feel love for a man that has been privy to every one of your failings. It's not easy to separate him from my many miscarriages, no matter how unfair it might be to him. Besides," she took a careful sip of her water, "I've never trusted Pycelle. He may have served my House for many, many years, but I know it's not to dragons that his true loyalty belongs."

Lyanna let out a breathless laugh of disbelief. It was as if Rhaella put her every feeling into words; how many times had she pictured Pycelle in her mind and raged, or seen him in the halls and scowled and turned away? There was something off about the man, something she misliked. 

Before she could reply, the servants came in, bearing plates of food and decanters of wine: rolls and potatoes, corn and turnips and beets, Arbor Gold and sweet summerwine. "Oh, good," Rhaella chirped before flashing a smile at Lyanna. "I ordered the swan. I know how much you enjoyed it at the coronation feast."

Lyanna had. But as soon as the platter of swan was placed before her, the steam of its smell wafting up into her face, nausea gripped her. Hard. Lyanna froze and grabbed the table, swallowing back the tangy taste of vomit swimming up her throat. 

Rhaella frowned and leaned forward, reaching for her. "Lyanna dear, are you alright?" There was concern in her purple eyes and fear in her voice. "You look green."

Lyanna shook her head desperately, willing the nausea away. "The swan," she choked out, "I can't." She cupped her hand over her mouth and tears sprang to her eyes. Her belly roiled painfully. 

Rhaella waved the servant over. "Please take the swan away. All of it." She handed her plate over as well. "Just bring some bacon, perhaps. And more fruit."

"I'm sorry," Lyanna whispered when the swan was completely cleared. "I don't know why, but as soon as I smelled it, I felt sick." Even thinking about it brought sickness to her throat. "I loved it so much at the feast, I don't..." She shook her head in confusion. 

Rhaella nodded gently in understanding but studied Lyanna with a critical eye. She stared so hard for so long that Lyanna felt her heart pound in her chest. "Have you been feeling well lately?" Rhaella finally asked, dropping her eyes casually to her cup of wine. 

"Completely fine," Lyanna answered honestly, smiling at Viserys as he came back into the room. Rhaella's question was an echo of Rhaegar's own concern earlier that morning, when he'd felt her skin. 

Rhaella caught sight of her son and smiled. The motherly slant to it made Lyanna's heart ache. "Sweetheart," she asked, "do you feel any better now?"

Viserys shrugged, unnaturally sullen, and slipped into his seat. "I suppose."

"Perhaps you should not go riding with Lyanna today if you are unwell," Rhaella began, watching him, waiting. 

"I promise I'm fine, Mother," Viserys said seriously, immediately going for the fruit bowl. "Look, I'm eating." Lyanna noticed he took only the smallest bites and ate very little, but Rhaella seemed pleased anyway. 

When the bacon was brought out, Lyanna turned ravenous, eating every strip that had been placed on her platter; she ate the fruit as well, as well as several buttered rolls, her stomach healed completely from the incident with the swan. She might have wondered at her desperate hunger if it weren't for how many times Rhaegar had made love to her over the course of the night and morning. She needed every bit of sustenance. 

When their meal was over, Viserys happily changed into his riding clothes, and followed her to Rhaegar's chambers. They found him sitting on his bed, lacing up his boots. Beside him was a bouquet of white roses bound in red ribbon. 

Rhaegar stood and pulled a cloak over his shoulders before gathering the bouquet. He handed them to Lyanna. "These are for Rhaella." 

"Pretty," she admired, half distracted by the small, fiery hand fit into hers; Lyanna spared a quick glance at Viserys, looking him over before he could catch her. There was still a sick, yellow shade to his pallor, but high on his cheekbones, there were spots of red. She contemplated laying the back of her hand on his skin to gauge his heat. 

Jaime's voice took her out of her thoughts. He stood in the doorway, bright and golden, ready in his armor for the day. He gave her a small nod before addressing Rhaegar. "Your Grace, you have a visitor."

Rhaegar sighed and said with a tinge of impatience, "Send them in." He leaned over to her and whispered, "this won't take long. I promise." But, as Jaime stepped aside, a small, squat man stepped forth and Rhaegar's face changed completely. "Tom," he said. 

The man named Tom bowed deeply, once for Rhaegar and once for Lyanna. His skin was dark and ashy, and his hands were spliced with an array of cuts. He seemed familiar. "My queen," he said to her respectfully before looking back at Rhaegar. "My work is finished, Your Grace. I-"

"Wonderful," Rhaegar butted in suddenly, his voice unnaturally loud. Lyanna frowned, taken aback by his interruption. "I'll see it now," he said to Tom. Then, to Lyanna, "Go on without me, I'll meet you at the sept."

"We can wait until you're finished," Lyanna insisted, struck with an odd feeling. What was he hiding? Why did Tom look so familiar to her?

"No," Rhaegar said immediately, "go on without me. You and Vis. Ser Jaime, Ser Arthur, and Ser Gerold will ride with you." He dug into the inside pocket of his cloak and produced a bag that jingled. He handed it to Viserys. "You can throw pennies to the smallfolk, how does that sound?"

Viserys grinned, but Lyanna wasn't as easily placated. "Are you sure you don't want us to wait? Surely you won't be that long."

Rhaegar bent forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek, before ushering her out the door. "It's fine, go on. I'll meet you there. I have to go now so I can get this done. I'll see you both soon."

And with that, he strode away with the man named Tom, leaving her behind. Lyanna stood there dumbly, staring off into the length of the corridor, wondering what the hells had just happened. She blinked several times, thoroughly confused. 

Viserys tugged impatiently on her hand. "Lya, come on."

She tried a smile for him, tucking away her irritation and bewilderment. "Let's go."

They walked hand in hand to the yard, where their horses were already saddled and waiting. Jaime, Arthur, and Gerold mounted up on their white steeds, and formed an arrow around Lyanna and Viserys: Jaime at their backs, with Ser Gerold flanking Viserys' right and Arthur at Lyanna's left. 

Viserys fidgeted mercilessly on his own small horse, scowling and grumbling. "Vis," Lyanna called as the gates were opened. He looked over. "Is that horse okay? We can get you another if you're uncomfortable."

Viserys shook his head. "This one is fine."

"Alright," she said slowly, doubtfully, kicking her heels into Smoke. "Get your pennies ready."

They rode down from Aegon's High Hill with the fresh crisp breeze on their faces and the sun glowing down from its sky of blue. The day was lovely and golden, and even the smell of the city couldn't take away from its beauty. 

It had been so long since Lyanna had roamed the dregs of the capital, exploring and playing at a peasant. The memory of her night with Rhaegar and Ser Barristan still brought a fond smile to her face, even to this day.

They continued to ride at a slow, leisurely pace. At the sight of the knights in white, the smallfolk began to stop and stare, murmuring to one another, before clumping in groups and calling out in excitement. "Queen Lyanna!" a little girl called out, jumping on her toes. A boy only a few years older than Viserys called out his name. 

Viserys, though, seemed strangely distracted, the complete opposite of the boy who had been so eager to ride and throw pennies. Lyanna frowned and urged her horse closer to his. "Vis!"

It was as if he was in another world. He did not flinch or make any move to acknowledge or belie he had heard her. "Viserys," she tried again, louder, leaning over to touch his arm. 

Viserys flinched and looked to her; his eyes were unnaturally large and glassy, and his skin had an odd sheen to it. It had only been a matter of minutes from their leaving the Red Keep. He mouthed something to her, but the excited cheer of the smallfolk made it difficult for Lyanna to hear his words. 

She urged Smoke to go as close as possible to Viserys and his horse, the animals' sides nearly flush. "What did you say?" She asked. 

"I feel dizzy," Viserys complained in a wobbly voice, his eyes focusing and unfocusing. The bag of pennies Rhaegar had given him was clutched tight in his hand. 

"Do you want to go back?" Lyanna asked in concern. "We can go home. I don't mind." Perhaps Rhaella had been right to question his health. 

Viserys grimaced, as if in pain, and swayed in his saddle. At his side, Ser Gerold was alert and frowning. "I," Viserys groaned, "don't feel good. I feel-" But before he could finish his sentence, he froze, convulsed, and spit up the fruit he'd eaten earlier all over his horse's mane in a mess of green chunks. 

Lyanna's eyes went wide and for some reason, that cold feeling of dread that had cloaked her since the coronation came back with a hard and ugly vengeance. It took hold of her with claws and took root in her soul. She was suddenly scared. "Ser Gerold," she called over, "we're going back. The prince is sick."

Ser Gerold bellowed out an order, and as he did, Viserys' eyes rolled white and he slumped sideways in his saddle; luckily, Lyanna had reigned up next to him, so as he slipped out of his saddle, she caught him in her arms. 

She struggled with his dead weight as she tried to pull him against her. "Viserys," she called his name desperately. Over and over and over, overwhelmed by the shouting of the smallfolk, the Kingsguards yelling orders, and the sudden terror gripping her chest as she looked down and saw nothing but the whites of Viserys' eyes as he lay limp in her arms. 

Arthur and Oswell closed in at their sides, shouting words that Lyanna couldn't comprehend. All she could focus on was helping Viserys and getting him home. With all the strength in her body, she hoisted him up and against her, pulling his leg over one side so that he was in her lap, safe against her. The white noise surrounding her made Lyanna feel like she was drowning. 

"What happened?" Ser Arthur shouted in her ear, loosening his blade in case of threat. 

Lyanna made to reply but Viserys jerked in her hold suddenly; relieved, she pulled back an inch from him, desperate for him to be awake again, for this all to be some trick or play. 

It wasn't. His head lolled to the side sickeningly and his face flamed red, his eyes rolling. "Vis," Lyanna bent to say near his ear. He jerked again, still unconscious, convulsed, then heaved. 

At first, all she registered was wet. Then came the smell. Chunks of vomit covered Lyanna's tunic, dripping down her chest and onto Viserys' clothes, the odor making her stomach churn as it seeped everywhere, brown with hunks of muted remnants of their midday meal. 

Lyanna felt her dread explode. It wasn't the bile or the slimy chunks of fruit sliding down her clothes that made her freeze in terror. 

It was the red that dripped off his lips and mixed with his sick. Blood.


	69. Kings and Dragons

The heavens raged. Dark as steel with thick black clouds that shot veins of white-hot lightning to the earth, the sky wept upon every inch of King's Landing. It turned the crooked alleys of Flea Bottom to sludge, kept the commons and nobles alike away hiding, painted every wall of the Red Keep to blood. 

On Visenya's Hill, the rain washed over the Great Sept of Baelor in such a way that it seemed to turn the gold-and-crystal dome into some great, starry eye that wept cold tears of agony; through the dome's faceted surface, the rainfall's reflection threw warped, quivering shadows upon the pale marble floors, bringing every idol of the Faith stirring to life. 

Each upon their own wall, the Seven seemed to tremble awake with a seance of rain and fire. The Mother and Maiden were awash in warm amber light, each commanding a small army of flaming candlesticks that, when coupled with the rain, turned their chalcedony and sapphire eyes to flickering. 

The Warrior's altar shimmered with several handful of dancing candles, the Father's little more than a handful, while the Crone and Smith garnered only a few; with her pearly eyes, the Crone stared unseeing upon the sept-proper, holding up her lightless lamp for blind guidance as the Warrior beside reared back his silver hammer. 

The Stranger seemed to stand apart from its godly counterparts, though every broad aisle of the sept was measured equally and alike. Done up in polished black marble with chips of gleaming onyx, the Stranger's towering, twisted form seemed more animal than human. It had no face, nor any discernible features really, and yet Cersei Lannister felt its stare as if Lord Tywin himself was looking down upon her. 

Cersei went to her knees before the towering idol, ignoring the pulse of pain that spasmed through her bones. In deference to the Stranger, she had worn a sweeping, high-necked gown of black silk and a hooded cloak of midnight velvet; neither did much in the way of cushioning her knees, but Cersei could endure, even _appreciate_ , the pain in this instance. 

Because she had gotten her wish. She had received her _miracle_ , in the form of a dying heir. Cersei couldn't help the smile blooming on her face; just the thought of the previous afternoon, golden and crisp, the Red Keep filled to the music of cries and shouts and breathless explanations, brought giddy excitement to her heart. 

Her miracle... The little wretched prince had fallen gravely ill the day before, and ever since, had been in a deep, unshakable sleep. Cersei had been walking the bailey when the Stark girl and Jaime had burst through the doors, headed by Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur. In the Lord Commander's arms had been the little prince, limp and dirty with blood coating his lips. But best of all, he'd been unconscious. 

Maegor's Holdfast had been locked up the entire night and morning, but talk had leaked anyway. Viserys was sick, very sick, and there was a very good chance of death. 

Cersei had donned her blacks as soon as the day began and rode to the Great Sept to give her thanks and encouragement. 

She raised her eyes once more, studying the towering gilded idol. So many feared the Stranger, cast it as evil, though in the end, everyone was visited by it. One day, when she was Rhaegar's queen, the people would fear her even more than this twisted death god. 

Cersei smiled and lit a candle at the Stranger's altar, watching in fascination as the flame reached into the air like some grasping golden hand desperate for the gift of death. Fire and gold, like dragons and lions, Targaryen and Lannister. Cersei's smile grew impossibly wider; she bowed her head and prayed. 

"Please," Cersei implored with as much pious sincerity as she had in her, "please take the boy away from this world. Take his heavenly soul and destroy his body. Leave King Rhaegar without his heir. Kill the prince."

Her lone candle flickered wildly, as if the Stranger itself was answering her prayer. 

"What are you doing here?"

It was a voice she had not heard in weeks. Smooth as syrup with a golden tone, just the sound of Jaime's voice sent a shiver down her spine. But the sight of him made her scowl. 

"Did you _follow_ me here?" She demanded, narrowing her eyes. The rain had made Jaime's curls go limp, and his white cloak sodden, but he still burned like Rock gold. 

Her twin gave her a smile that was brimming with insolence. "I just wanted to make sure my sweet sister was safe and well."

Cersei got to her feet and dusted off her knees, angry as a swatted hornet. The accusation in his words had dripped with condescension, and that was something she would not accept. From anyone. "Why would I be anything but?" 

Jaime snorted unkindly. "You are many things," he said in amusement, "prickly, pretty, and paranoid to all hell...but pious?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "No. Father did not raise us to be gods-fearing."

That much was true; Tywin Lannister had raised his children to fear only him, excluding kings and gods alike. And yet still, Jaime's insolence made her hackles rise and set her blood to boiling. "How _dare_ you insinuate I am not a child of the Faith," she started, playing for the part of a godly lady. 

Jaime interrupted her lines before they even began. "The only child you are is of Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna. No other." He stepped closer and for a moment, she was rendered paralyzed by his familiar scent - the same scent she had loved all her life, the one that had cloaked her skin every time he was in her. But Jaime couldn't leave well enough alone. "Now tell me, sister, what are you doing kneeling before the Stranger?"

Cersei shook herself from her spell, and shoved Jaime away roughly. "Perhaps I am praying for the kiss of death so I never have to see your face again."

A group of Most Devout suddenly drifted by, pale and shimmering in their cloth-of-silver vestments and crystal pendants, but Jaime paid them as much mind as a pack of fleas. "Are you sure you're not praying for a certain prince's demise?"

The smack she dealt him echoed like a wail in the silent sept, bouncing off the walls. Jaime's head whipped to the side from the blow and a thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. The look he gave her was equal parts lust and loathing. 

At the sound of the slap, the group of Most Devout had frozen, staring with wide eyes at the fuming twins. 

"Don't worry," Jaime called over arrogantly, "I think my sweet sister's hand just slipped." He added a disarming smile and fingered the hilt of his golden sword, watching as they went on their way. Then he looked back at her. 

Cersei sneered at this stranger before her. This wasn't Jaime; this was some soft soldier molded into a dragon's pet by the white cloak on his back and the sworn brothers that constantly surrounded him. Father had been right; when Jaime accepted that cloak, he had denounced every part of himself that was Lannister. 

All that was left was a callow boy with no future. 

"The audacity you have to accuse me of wishing for the prince's death," she hissed, "is astounding."

"Not wishing," Jaime corrected, casually wiping away the blood from his mouth with a thumb, " _praying_. There is a meaningful difference between the two. I saw you light a candle to the Stranger. Don't even try to deny it."

Cersei smiled sweetly, boiling at his gall, but leaning in all the same. She remembered a time when she would moan his name in the throes of ecstasy; lately, his name held only contempt. "I don't have to divulge my prayers to you, Jaime. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm finished speaking to the gods today." With that, she flicked her hair and strode past him, eager to get back to the Keep. Perhaps the Stranger had granted her prayer already. 

But as in birth, Jaime was never far behind. He caught up to her easily, jerking her into the Hall of Lamps with none of the tenderness he usually possessed when handling her. Beneath a leaded globe, Jaime's skin was glowing red. "Are you really that confident or did your head turn to pudding while I was in Winterfell? Prince Viserys sick is just the thing you need to wheedle your way into King Rhaegar's life."

Cersei clenched her jaw, casually looking left, then right to ensure no ears were around to hear. "My wits are in check, brother, thank you for inquiring. And yes," she murmured, "I do pray the prince dies mercifully in his sleep. The gods saw fit to strike him ill. Why should I curse their doing? I can only hope for expediency."

Jaime gave her look of utter scorn, those lips that which had loved her so often now turned down. "You are reaching for a star, Cersei, and you will _fail_. The king will never marry another."

Cersei chuckled breathlessly and laid the back of her knuckles gently on Jaime's cheek, like a mother would her child. "Oh, my brother," she sighed, glancing up with large wildfire eyes. "The king doesn't really have a choice anymore, does he?"

* * *

Cersei's arrogance took Jaime's breath away. Her words echoed in his head like a scream in a tunnel, constantly reupping and reverberating through the folds of his brain until all he knew was the sly cadence of her parting words. 

_"Oh, brother,"_ she had said with the most patronizing tone - the same tone their lord father used when dealing with his subjects. _"The king doesn't really have a choice anymore, does he?"_

Jaime had to force himself to clench his jaw shut just so he wouldn't scream. King Rhaegar would surely notice that, no matter how distracted he was. Doubled over at his desk, the king had been awake ever since they had returned from riding to the Great Sept the afternoon before, Prince Viserys limp and unconscious in the Lord Commander's great arms. 

Maester Pycelle had been with the little prince all night and morning on the king's orders, charged with finding a cure for the unknowable flux that had befallen his heir. 

Lyanna sighed from where she sat across from the king's desk, and lifted her head; her eyes were rimmed in red, making her pale skin seem even paler, sickly somehow, but her voice was strong and full of poison. "When will that wretched maester be done?"

Rhaegar sat up slowly and looked at his wife with the saddest look Jaime had ever seen. He opened his mouth to speak, but a throat cleared at the open door, cutting whatever he'd been about to say dead. 

Maester Pycelle shuffled into the room, back bent unnaturally beneath the dark red of his billowing robes. His long beard was snow white and magnificent to behold, but the filmy eyes set into his sagging face were bright with knowing. Ever a creature of the lion, Maester Pycelle was a Lannister soldier through and through, only garbed in cowled robes instead of gilded armor. 

Rhaegar stood so quickly from his chair that it toppled backwards. "Tell me," he demanded, those purple eyes large and dark and afraid. 

"The prince," Pycelle croaked, "remains unconscious. No hand nor substance will shake him from this sleep."

Rhaegar scowled. "Do you have any idea of what this sickness is?"

Pycelle shook his head in a great show of regret. "I am afraid not, Your Grace. The signs are very like the bloody flux, but Queen Rhaella informed me that the prince began with a cough, after which fever and stomach problems followed."

"But he'll live?" Rhaegar insisted impatiently. 

"If he can make through another night, the boy should live. The first days are critical in such severe illnesses," said Pycelle. "Isolation is imperative though, so I must ask you to keep away from the prince's room."

"Does my mother show any sign of this illness?" Rhaegar wanted to know. 

"No," Pycelle said, "but I did give her something to sleep. She was making herself sick with grief. She rests now in her own chambers."

Rhaegar closed his eyes and allowed his head to drop. "Good," he murmured. 

"The prince is alone?" Lyanna asked sharply, stepping forward. Every line of her body was coiled and tense, like a snake waiting to kill its prey. 

Pycelle shook his head. "He is being watched over by one of my acolytes."

Lyanna rolled her eyes and went for the door, stomping her feet all the way. "I'll sit with him. Should he wake, he should see a familiar face."

"Your Grace," Pycelle rasped, "it is not a good idea to be in the prince's presence for long. I do not know much of his illness, and it could be very contagious. You were already around him long enough yesterday to have caught it. We must be careful. In fact," Pycelle raised his brows, "you should stay in your own chambers for now. At least until this malady has passed."

Lyanna looked outraged. "I have to be locked up now? Am I a prisoner? Rhaegar," she looked to her husband, imploring him for her side. 

But if anything, the maester's words had only steeled the king's resolve. "You can't be around Vis right now. When he's better, but...not now. And," he softened his eyes and words, "I think it's best if you stay in your room."

Lyanna's eyes went wide as eggs. "You can't be serious?" 

Rhaegar clenched his jaw. "Deadly. Even if you don't have it, the servants could be a carrier. I am not going to lose you."

Lyanna blew out a disbelieving breath and shook her head angrily before going to storm out, but Rhaegar's voice stopped her. "Where are you going?"

Lyanna looked over her shoulder, her grey eyes dark and stormy. "To sit in my cage."

Rhaegar frowned. "Wait a moment, and I'll come with you."

"Mm, Your Grace, perhaps you should let the queen go alone," Pycelle butted in. 

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed in suspicion, a mirror to his wife's own visage by the door. "Why?"

Pycelle seemed distinctly uncomfortable, as if the weight of their eyes was too much to handle. "It is not wise to put yourself in peril, should Her Grace become ill."

Rhaegar took a deep breath and stared the maester in the eyes. "My wife and I have lain together many times this past week. If she has it, I surely will, too."

Pycelle blinked, taken aback by the king's candor; Jaime shifted uncomfortably. "Her Grace was with Prince Viserys yesterday when he fell unconscious. He spilled his sick on her. Besides," Pycelle cleared his throat, "I thought Your Grace would like to speak with the small council as soon as possible."

At the door, Lyanna stiffened. Jaime already knew what was coming before it was said. Cersei's words in the sept came rushing back with the force of a wild river. _"Oh, brother. The king doesn't really have a choice anymore, does he?"_

Rhaegar's stare on Maester Pycelle was sharper than steel. "Why would I need to call the council?"

Pycelle frowned, ringing his hands nervously. "My king, when the prince dies, you will have no heir."

The room grew still. "I thought," Rhaegar pronounced slowly, keeping his alien eyes fixed on Pycelle's quivering jowls, "you said there was a chance Viserys would live. Why do you say _when the prince dies_ , instead of _if_?"

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Pycelle said in his ancient rasp, "it was a misuse of tense."

"Misuse of tense," Lyanna cut in sharply, "sounds an awful lot like _treason_."

Pycelle gasped and grabbed ahold of his long white beard for safety. "I would never! I have implored the Mother herself to save the prince so that no more tragedy can strike King Rhaegar's reign."

"I'm sure," Lyanna spat. "Have you no faith in the prince himself? Do you not believe in your skills as a maester?"

Pycelle said, "The prince's caretaker, Lanna, passed away last night." The air stilled once more. "She caught this sickness as well, and perished in a pool of her own blood and sick. The kitchens have reported one of their cooks died two days ago." The Grand Maester turned his eyes on the king. "This illness holds no prejudice, even for the heirs of kings."

Rhaegar grabbed ahold of the desk and seemed to vibrate in his rage. The contour of his body quivered, his cheeks turned from pale marble to Targaryen red, and his purple eyes blazed with the glory of two falling stars. 

"Your Grace," Pycelle said timidly. 

A shower of crystal shards suddenly exploded near the far wall, falling to the floor in a tinkling song. Rhaegar had taken and thrown the wine decanter so quickly, all Jaime had seen was an iridescent blur before it had crashed against stone. Pycelle jumped nearly a foot into the air, Jaime had flinched, but Lyanna had moved not a muscle. She seemed frozen, unseeing. 

"Get me my council," Rhaegar said in the darkest iron tone Jaime had ever witnessed before. He looked up. "Now!"

Pycelle jumped again and fled the room quickly, leaving behind only Jaime, Lyanna, and Rhaegar. 

Lyanna broke the silence. "I can't believe this," she laughed in disbelief. Tears formed in her eyes. "Of course, of course, of course."

Rhaegar grimaced. "Lya-"

"Don't," she bit sharply. "Just...don't." She swiveled before her husband could stop her and ran out of the room, the sound of her boots echoing off the walls until they faded completely. 

"Would that I could throw Pycelle against my wall just as easily as that crystal," Rhaegar said aloud, staring at the spot Lyanna had disappeared from. He turned to Jaime. "Would it be unfit for a king to murder his Grand Maester?"

Jaime thought of nine-inch nails and wild green flames and dead purple eyes. "It is not for me to say, Your Grace."

Rhaegar snorted, amused almost. "Of course it isn't." He angrily kicked the chair that had fallen over earlier, knocking loose one of its armrests. "Whomever said that kings were blessed was a fucking fool."

Jaime stayed silent. He'd never thought a king's life was so great anyhow; he'd seen enough of Aerys to last him a lifetime of kings and dragons. 

"They're going to try to make me take another wife," Rhaegar said coldly, looking to Jaime with wild eyes. "They'll want me to marry someone else - your sister, most likely. And before, it was fine for me _not_ to. I had Viserys, a perfectly healthy heir who shared my blood. But now, Vis is sick and who knows if he'll live, and they'll want me to take another wife. And..." He ran his hands through his hair so viciously, Jaime saw a chunk of silver fall to the ground. "Lyanna is going to hate me forever."

Jaime might have offered a rebuttal, but he did not think his words would be welcome. 

Rhaegar's eyes fell over the room, straying briefly to the pile of what remained of the wine decanter, and finally came to Jaime. "What would you do? If you were me...what would you do?"

Jaime took a breath and shook his head. "I don't think I-"

"I command you," Rhaegar cut in, "as your king. Tell me what you think."

The king was in rare form tonight, and Jaime knew he should tread lightly with whatever came out of his mouth. But still, the hairs on his arm stood on end at the prospect of speaking his mind and provoking Rhaegar's fury.

As if the king could read his mind, he spit, " _Now_."

Well, if his king commanded it. "Should Prince Viserys fall to his illness, and something were to happen to the little princess, your throne would pass to House Baratheon. Your line would be extinguished and Lord Robert would succeed you, would he not?"

"Yes," Rhaegar said, jaw clenched and teeth gritted. 

"Well," Jaime murmured, unsure of what else to say. The king was between a rock and a hard place, facing the death of his House, but risking the destruction of his marriage. 

Jaime was taken back to that morning in the godswood, the morning before he unseated King Rhaegar in the final tilt. Lyanna had fretted over her husband's fidelity, had spoken childish fancies of running away to Essos should Rhaegar decide to set her aside or marry another. And Jaime, the fool with one friend, had agreed to go with her. 

But would Lyanna ever even make it, should she decide to leave? Would Rhaegar let her get away? Jaime snuck a look at his king, who was doubled over again with his hands shoved into his hair, dark purple eyes crazed and torn. Somehow, he thought not. 

"I don't hate you, Ser Jaime," Rhaegar said suddenly, lifting those strange eyes to land on him. "Not truly."

Jaime frowned. "Your Grace?" But he knew where this was going, saw it clear as day; all roads lead back to Lyanna. 

"I envy you," Rhaegar admitted with a breathless, disbelieving chuckle. He shook his head. "I envy your relationship with my wife."

Jaime's heart lurched; he was not eager to be chewed out a second time by his king. The sting of the first time, the night he crowned Lyanna with the laurel of roses, was still ever-present. "There is _no_ relationship, Your Grace," he objected. 

Rhaegar stared in silence, weighing him almost as he sat back against one of the unbroken chairs. "I was referring to your friendship," he finally said, "I was not implying anything inappropriate."

Jaime held back a snort. It may have been the first time the king had ever _not_ implied something inappropriate between Lyanna and him. 

"Everything is so uncomplicated for you," Rhaegar barreled on, eyes hard as stone. "You're able to have her trust, her companionship, without all seven of the kingdoms hanging over your head like a guillotine."

"Queen Lyanna," Jaime treaded slowly, "is very fond of you, Your Grace." And didn't Jaime know it; how many times had he guarded her door at Dragonstone, the golden knight warding off her nightmares, only to hear the dragon's name called over and over and over again? Lyanna had been a mess before she had gone home. 

"She may _want_ me, and I her, but it seems that everything I do ensures I cannot have her," Rhaegar said tiredly. All at once, the fight in him had faded to barely more than a glimmer, leaving the dragon weak and vulnerable. 

The small council arrived after that, with the exceptions of Brandon Stark and Lord Monford, and filed into the king's room - Varys, the Grand Maester, Jon Connington, and Lord Tywin, barely affording his son a passing glance. It angered his father to see him all in white. 

No one spoke for a very long time, leaving the room a stuffy, silent tomb that which made Jaime sweat uncomfortably beneath his armor. It seemed hours had passed before Rhaegar finally spoke. "Who will be the first to say it?" His words were a challenge just as much as a question. His eyes went to the red-haired Master of Coin. "Jon?" 

Jon Connington clenched his jaw. "I do not wish to disparage the queen, Your Grace."

"You need to disparage my wife in order to suggest what I know is on the tip of your tongue?" Rhaegar snarked. 

Jon closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "You already know my stance, Your Grace. I pleaded for you to take a second wife as soon as Her Grace's condition was found out. Anything I say now is only repetition, and if I remember our last meeting correctly, _unwelcome_ as well."

"True," Rhaegar allowed coldly, "and yet you all still agree. Except for Lord Brandon, of course, but my good-brother is with his daughter at the moment." He turned his eyes on Jaime's father. "Lord Tywin, what are your thoughts on the matter? As my Hand, I demand your counsel."

Tywin's pale green eyes fixed on the king, as haughty as Cersei's had been that morning in the sept. "I think that taking a second wife would be the wisest choice in your current dilemma. The Faith will initially rebel against the institution, but I have every confidence that their minds can be changed. There are many a noble lady who would die for the chance to become your queen."

 _My daughter included and above all_ , was the missing rest.

Rhaegar seemed to hear the same. "I'm sure..." He looked at each of his lords in turn, burning them with his fiery eyes. "And yet, I employed you each on my small council for a reason. I will not take another wife, so you'll need to retire that argument on my orders."

"Rhaegar," Jon stepped forward, "there's been enough stalling. You need to consider heirs seriously now. Prince Viserys is _dying_."

Rhaegar snapped his eyes over. "Do you think I'm enduring your presence for _fun_?" His scowl deepened as he turned his gaze over the gathered council. "The next man who dares to propose another wife will need to find a new head. Because he will be short one."

Instead of threatened, Jon seemed angered. "Where is your mind, Rhaegar? Your heir is sick, you have no other brothers, and all that's left to you is an infant girl. Should the prince die of his illness, that leaves Princess Daenerys as your heir. 

"What if something were to happen to her before she could succeed you and bear children of her own? What if she was murdered, or fell ill, or was found to be _barren_?" The word echoed off the wall like a curse, but Jon continued. 

"Your House is dwindled, and you are facing the final threads of your bloodline. Unless you wish to force your mother into another marriage, _you_ producing children is the only option. 

"Fine, you don't want to take another wife. I'll sail to Essos and find you a beautiful Lyseni noblewoman with Valyrian blood; she'll have silver hair and purple eyes. You can lay with her and legitimize whatever children come from your coupling." Jaime swallowed back his shock; it was a lucky thing Brandon Stark was otherwise occupied, or else Jon Connington would have a few less teeth. 

As it was, it seemed still a viable option, only from the queen's husband instead of her brother. "Bastards?" Rhaegar choked out in disbelief. "Are you mad? Have you forgotten what the Blackfyres did to the realm? The smallfolk and lords alike would revolt."

Jon scowled. "If you don't wish the realm to know of your children's bastardy, you could send your paramour to Dragonstone once pregnant, and Lyanna as well for appearance's sake, and when the children are born, present them to the world as Queen Lyanna's."

Rhaegar seemed to shake in rage. "You want me to beg my barren wife to play the part of miracle mother? You want me to fuck another woman and force my queen to take my bastards in as her own blood? Is that what you're telling me?"

The room grew deathly still. Jon met the king's eyes brazenly. "As your wife, she must do whatever you command of her."

"Jon," Rhaegar said slowly, "I think you have been alone for far too long." He stood to his full height and gave the griffin a cool, long stare. "Remind me to find you a wife soon. That is, if I haven't given your head leave of your shoulders." He turned then, a swivel on his foot, and looked at Jaime. "Ser Jaime, if you would do me the kindness of escorting my lords back to their respective chambers, I wouldn't want them to wander."

The king went in three long strides to the door, but Maester Pycelle's voice sounded out, quivering. "Your Grace, what shall we do about the business of your heir? I can begin the writing in case the little princess becomes next in line. Or...I can arrange passage to Essos, to search for your paramour."

Rhaegar's back tensed and for several long moments he stood still as the Stranger. Jaime worried that the king would snap, wild and without warning like his father before him, and kill one or all of his council in a blind rage. 

But he simply looked back over his shoulder, one purple eye that gleamed like a black amethyst fixed on Jaime. "Ser," Rhaegar murmured deadly quiet, "use force if necessary."


	70. The Storm of Ice and Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter takes place right after Rhaegar leaves his small council in the previous chapter.**

In the warm amber haze of Maegor's Holdfast, the sapphires glittered like the star-crusted shroud of a winter midnight sky; every time a candle flickered or a torch sputtered, the jewels would wink and flash, as if coming alive. 

Lyanna tried a small smile and reached her hand out slowly, shivering at the iron's cold bite against her fingertips. With tender care, she lifted the crown from its velvet-bedded box, silently marveling at its beauty after so many months tucked away in the deep recesses of her trunk. 

Her princess crown, the one she had been gifted with on Rhaegar's and her wedding day - it was an incredible piece of artistry, black iron twisted like vines, dotted with thorns and morning dew diamonds, and flowered with winter roses of sparkling sapphires; a crown to match her long-dead Harrenhal laurel. 

Gently, Lyanna raised the crown and settled it over the top of her head, pressing it down until the iron thorns bit into her scalp; it was a cold, yet welcome, pain - a pain that brought back rushing memories. Out of all the times she had worn this crown, only two days seemed significant. 

The first was the last time she had ever worn it, on the day of her brother's wedding to Lady Catelyn. The morning had been cool and lovely at Riverrun; the flowers had bloomed in a rainbow of colors, the hearts had been light, the merriment overflowing as the river rushed in the background. It was also the day she had found out that she was pregnant with Rhaegar's heir. 

The second time was her own wedding day, a bleak grey morning when the heavens had wept cold rain for the royal affair. She had bound herself to the dragon prince in the Southron way, shaking in her snow white gown as Rhaegar had taken away her maiden's cloak. Afterward, the High Septon had placed this crown on her head while she knelt. 

Listening to the angry storm outside tonight, Lyanna could almost take herself back to that day; she remembered the hot golden light within the sept, the hundreds of faces staring back at her, the towering idols of the Mother and Father looking down upon them with the most glamoured, dull expressions.

Lyanna wondered if the Old Gods were laughing at her this very moment from the North. 

How many times, in the early months of Rhaegar's and her marriage, had she wished and plotted for their union to be set aside? How many days and nights had she prayed for a way out? How many prayers had the Old Gods heard of her pleading for Rhaegar to take a second wife, or for a simple annulment? 

It looked as if the gods worked in mysterious ways when it came to prayer, answering but never in the way or timely fashion that she had wanted. They had made her love him first before granting her childish hopes. 

_What a cruel, cruel world_ , Lyanna reflected numbly. 

Sighing, she took the crown from her head and placed it back in its box, wondering when, if ever, she might see it again. Just as she was closing the wooden lid to its box, her own door creaked open. 

Rhaegar strode in with hazy anger burning in his Valyrian eyes, slamming the door shut behind him with a cracking boom that sounded like thunder. Lyanna flinched and watched with wide eyes as he went to the rocking chair beside her window and slumped into it gracelessly; his fingers raked savagely through his silver hair, pulling it away from his face. 

Lyanna frowned; she had only left him and Jaime half an hour ago, just after Maester Pycelle had been ordered to gather the small council. Her throat suddenly went bone dry; whatever had been discussed with the council was not going to bode well. For her or her heart. 

They sat in complete silence for a very long time. So long, in fact, that she was able to hear the weather grow from a steady rain to a wrathful storm, lightning and thunder battling in turns. Every so often, the heavens would roar and, moments later, light up with a stunning silver brilliance. 

Rhaegar's voice was quiet when he finally spoke, and rusty as the Stark swords in the crypts beneath Winterfell, but she was still able to make out his words over the din of the heavens. "I don't know what to do, Lyanna." He looked up, his expression torn. 

The absolute hopelessness dripping from his lips made her chest tighten. "What," she murmured, getting to her feet, "do you mean?"

Rhaegar blew out a long, harsh breath and stared her straight in the eyes, but where once she had been mesmerized by such an action, now she only felt cold. "I am not just a husband, Lyanna, I am a king, too...and others might argue, a king _first_. I am at a point in my rule where children are absolutely vital, but you and I have just gotten to a better place in our marriage. I..."

"Need an heir," Lyanna finished with no emotion. It was what all their problems boiled down to, the place to where all roads lead back. _My barren belly and our lost baby._

Rhaegar looked tortured as he nodded. His pale skin had lost its luster in the past day and a half, and where once his hair had gleamed like fresh steel, now it lay flat as an ancient blade. 

She couldn't take the waiting. "Say it," she insisted in a low, icy voice, clenching her fists and rooting her feet to the floor. "Go ahead and tell me what they want you to do, what you're _going_ to do. Go on, _say it_."

Rhaegar frowned. "Lyanna," he broached slowly, rising from the chair with a fluid care that was very much like a hunter approaching a wild animal. No sudden movements. 

She raised her voice to a flaming cadence. "Say it, you coward!" 

Her words broke a dam. "They want me to take a paramour," he blurted out with wide black eyes. "They want to find me a Lyseni noblewoman so I can take her as my paramour and legitimize the children I have with her."

All the air left Lyanna's lungs in one woosh, leaving her a dry carcass of meat, organs, and bones. Her head swam uneasily, blurring her eyes for a moment so that reality was willed away into a dark, flickering haze. She squeezed her fists until her fingernails drew blood at her palms, and only then could she see and breathe again. 

Her mind went wild. She suddenly imagined some beautiful Lyseni paramour arrogantly traipsing around the Red Keep, with silver hair and pale purple eyes, or icy blue perhaps, smiling coyly at Rhaegar as she passed him by. It was bad enough with only Cersei Lannister to contend with; Lyanna could not imagine another woman around, a woman who would actually know what Rhaegar felt like. 

"Lyanna," Rhaegar whispered her name desperately, taking a sure step forward, "say something. _Anything_. Please."

Lyanna looked up; the grey of her eyes had hardened to winter ice. "I have weathered Elia Martell and Cersei Lannister," she said quietly, "but I never would have guessed it was a faceless woman that would take what is lawfully mine."

Rhaegar grimaced as if hurt. "I don't want to do this, Lyanna, you have to know this. I would give almost anything _not_ to do this, but..." He flicked his eyes up sharply. "This is the end of my House, my blood, my family. I cannot let that all fall into dust over a problem I can easily fix."

"By fucking another woman that isn't your wife," Lyanna finished icily. 

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed into amethyst slits. "I need the children, you know this. If Viserys dies, I will have only Daenerys. She will be the only dragon left after me and my mother, and a female besides...there are many advantageous families in this realm that will chomp at the bit to overthrow her and our House. I cannot let that happen."

Her brain understood, but her heart did not. "Surely you haven't forgotten what the Blackfyres led to...bastards fighting over a dead king's crown," Lyanna threw back. 

"These bastards of mine," Rhaegar rebutted carefully, watching her, "would have no _trueborn_ children to contend with."

Somehow that stung worse than the thought of him fucking another woman. Lyanna thought of her little Rhaella, a pile of ashes beneath the Sept of Baelor, her ice and fire girl that had never lived. Knowing that Rhaegar would share his dragons with a woman that was not her made Lyanna both ache and seethe powerfully. 

"This is true," she finally allowed, clenching her jaw hard enough to crack. What more could she say? It was no longer a viable option for Rhaegar to give up his quest for children; at this point, with Viserys dying down the hall, it was his _only_ option. 

The revelation did not, however, take the pain away.

"Lyanna," Rhaegar murmured with the sharpest pain in his voice, "I have never wanted to be with another woman the way I have been with you. _Please_ know this isn't something I actually want. Even now, facing the death of my House, I still balk."

She could hardly hear his words. "At least there is rationale in this idea," she admitted absentmindedly, staring at the pattern in the floor, hoping this was all some fever dream.

It wasn't. 

Rhaegar's eyes widened slightly, as in disbelief. "You understand?" He asked her quietly.

The room seemed to shake as a powerful bout of thunder suddenly rocked the earth. "I do," she answered. Rhaegar's face fell into a visage of relief, as if the burden of his conundrum had lifted a weight from his chest. Lyanna lifted her chin, resolved, but no less saddened. "When shall I leave?"

Rhaegar froze, and every bit of relief seemed to melt from his bones so that he was coiled tight. "Leave?" He repeated, not understanding, or perhaps not wanting to. 

"For Winterfell," she finished, mustering strength to her voice. "When can I leave?"

"You...are not... _leaving_ ," Rhaegar replied in a disjointed string of words, as if talking was a task he had yet to learn. 

"I will be," Lyanna said confidently. "If you take a paramour, I _will_ be going home. For good." 

Rhaegar's anger began to build from its embers slowly, kindling yellow then red. "Is this some sort of ultimatum?"

Lyanna shook her head, sincere in every way. "I am not trying to manipulate you, Rhaegar, or trying to get you to change your mind. I know this is what must be done, but...you are not the only person in this situation. And it would be cruel to force me to stay here and watch."

Rhaegar laughed in black disbelief. "If you think you are leaving me, you have another thing coming."

Lyanna bristled. "You can't be so cruel as to force me to stay here? I wouldn't begrudge you your heirs, but I also will not stay and play witness to you prancing your paramour around."

"I haven't made up my mind about what I'm going to do," Rhaegar argued with hysteria rising in his tone, "Viserys may yet live."

"Viserys is unconscious, Rhaegar," Lyanna tried with gentle practicality, "and getting sicker by the hour. Only the gods know what will become of him, but you and I both know you have no other choice but to take a paramour if you don't want a second wife."

When Rhaegar did not answer, Lyanna sighed. "That's what I thought." She turned to rummage through her chest once more, but Rhaegar took three long strides toward her and grabbed her arm, twisting her around. 

"Don't even _think_ about packing," he ground out through gritted teeth. 

Lyanna wrenched her arm away, angrier now; the wolf's blood racing in her veins howled for a fight. "I am never going to be alright with my husband crawling between another woman's thighs, for the sake of a dynasty or not. I would never ask you not to preserve your House, you can have your heirs. But you can't have me. You can't have _both_."

Rhaegar's eyes flamed like purple fire. "I am going to _have you_ no matter what." And when he leaned in, his sweet scent almost stunned her. 

She took a self-preserving step back and scowled. "Don't be selfish, Rhaegar."

" _Me_?" He laughed with no humor. "That is rich coming from the woman who wants to leave her husband."

"Her _philandering_ husband," she cut in. "If you're going to play this game, Rhaegar, at least put the name to the deed."

"I won't be philandering! I'm doing this for the longevity of my bloodline!" Rhaegar shouted. 

"Adultery is adultery," Lyanna said coldly, "no matter the noble cause." She scowled and shook her head in frustration. "I can't look at your face right now." She whirled and went to the door, wrenching it open. 

Rhaegar followed behind as she slipped from her chambers. "Well, you're going to have to keep looking at me, because I am not done with you, Lyanna." 

"I _am_ ," she threw over her shoulder, hurrying through the empty corridors of the holdfast. 

Rhaegar's long legs allowed him to keep pace with her, until finally he was fed up enough to grab her arm and slam her against the wall of an abandoned hallway in the newly renovated king's wing. "Stop," he yelled in her face, "just stop it already!"

Lyanna fought against his hold, but it was of no use. He was so strong, her dragon. "Let me go," she struggled wildly, uselessly, "why can't you just give me up?"

Rhaegar's grip got impossibly tighter, so tight that her wrists would wear bracelets of blue bruises by the morning. "There is no _giving you up_ ," he told her. "It's always going to _be_ you. Get that through your skull!"

Lyanna jerked her hips against him, making her remember white-hot nights of passion, and shoved him away. "You don't want me," she hissed angrily, stepping back, "you just want to own me, have me, _fuck me_ whenever you have a free moment away from your new whore's thighs."

Rhaegar looked enraged. " _Shut up_! Just. Shut. Up. Every bit of your beauty is absolutely _wasted_ when you spew shit like that."

Lyanna ignored that. "Let me go, Rhaegar. It will do you all the more good if you let me go home." 

Rhaegar was panting wildly, his chest heaving. "I made that mistake once already, letting you go off to Winterfell for seven months. I'll never let you go again."

"No," she began to argue, but Rhaegar cut her off. 

"I am your husband and your king, and you _will_ listen to me. I am _done_ letting you go," he told her in a desperate mania, "that part of my life is over. I will not be without you ever again, do you understand me?"

Lyanna's eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened. "I am not staying in your presence so long as you are breaking your vows to me with another woman. Like I said earlier, you can have your heirs, but you can't have me."

Rhaegar stilled, looked deep into her eyes, and said in a voice like shards of glass, "I _hate_ you so much."

The words were a hot knife to her stomach. "Oh?" She asked breathlessly, tears forming in her eyes and rage blooming in her chest, "well, I hate you, too." After all, love and hate were two flip sides of the same coin. For her, at least. 

"Your Grace." The meek voice that called out belonged to neither Rhaegar or Lyanna. They both looked to the side, met with the sight of a little servant girl standing at the end of the hall, frightened and nearly shaking at the display of the dragon and the wolf. 

The sudden intrusion only irritated Rhaegar that much more. "Say what you need," he called over in an iron tone with an undercurrent of black impatience waiting to explode. 

The servant looked to Lyanna with eyes as wide as eggs. "Your Grace, a Maester Luwin has arrived and gone to meet your brother. Lord Brandon bid me to notify you." 

Lyanna inclined her head, relieved but unable to fully care at the moment. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, willing away the nausea rising up in her throat. "Very good, thank you. You may go now." 

So grateful, the servant girl raced away quickly, disappearing from the hall like a ghost. When the sounds of her footsteps had been drowned away by the thunder above, Lyanna looked at her husband's lovely face, and thought of what he'd said. _I hate you so much._

When she spoke, her voice was sharper than a knife. "Everything is all your fault. The problems, the miscarriage..." As soon as she said it, she wanted to snatch the words right back; she hadn't meant them, but in her anger, she had let them out anyway. 

Rhaegar looked up quickly, eyes flaring. "What did you just say?"

It was childish, she knew, and untrue, but she wanted to hurt him like he was hurting her. _I hate you_ , he'd said, _so much._

"The miscarriage," she repeated, "was your fault. You gave me that baby, and though I was scared at first, I ended up wanting her. I _really, really_ wanted her."

There seemed two parts of Rhaegar that were battling: a morbid sadness and a flaring wrath. "How was _I_ supposed to have prevented your miscarriage when you took every step to make sure you were in harm's way?"

Lyanna stiffened. "I stayed for your brother and your mother. I _thought_ I was doing the right thing at the time, and I have regretted it ever since. Don't throw that in my face, Rhaegar."

Rhaegar shook his head. "Then tell me, Lyanna, how is the loss of our child _my_ fault? Tell me, I'd appreciate the enlightenment."

Lyanna snorted and turned, heading for the staircase that lead to the battlement atop Maegor's Holdfast. Rhaegar's footsteps followed her, echoing against the stone walls.

"Tell me," he prodded, "tell me why it's my fault. I came home from Casterly Rock to watch you bleed in White Sword Tower. I saw what was left of our little girl all over that floor, and you tell me that was my fault. Why? _How_?"

Lyanna reached the door at the top of the stairs, feeling the power of the storm through the vibration of the handle. Through the wood, the rain, wind, and thunder howled. She turned and looked down on Rhaegar. "You should have told your father that you didn't want to marry me. You should have begged for another, you should have _found_ another to wed, to make your princess."

Her voice turned acidic, into spewing white-hot vitriol. "Instead you married me, and made me stay with you, and inserted yourself into my life and put yourself between my thighs and gave me that little girl. And now she's gone! And I'm broken, and you're going to put yourself between another woman's thighs and make babies with her, and I cannot _be here_ and watch as you do that."

Lyanna took a deep, steadying breath to quell the poisonous rage shaking inside her. "It's all your fault." Then she turned and opened the door, stepping out onto the battlement. 

Immediately, the rain began to lash at her face and the wind ripped at her hair, but the cold wild weather felt so _good_ , like a salve, that she relished it. Out, around, and below, King's Landing slept. 

Rhaegar was behind her when she turned around, his silver hair limp and pale, the material of his tunic already soaked transparent and sticking obscenely to his chest and stomach. She felt her skin flame despite the cold. 

"How dare you," he shouted over the storm, "you were not the only one that lost a child. She was mine, too, Lyanna. I wanted her, too!"

"It's different!" She yelled back. "You didn't have to carry her and bleed her. It's not the same. You can't know what I went through after I lost her. My heart was _broken_!"

Rhaegar shoved his hair from his face with incredible frustration, and when he raised his eyes, all she saw was pain. "You shouldn't have run away, Lyanna. That was _our_ child, _ours_. You should have been _here_ , with me, grieving _with me._ Not traipsing around Winterfell with Jaime fucking Lannister."

Lyanna blinked, taken aback by the fury in his voice. "Jaime is my _friend_. Does the idea of companionship really frighten you so much?"

"Yes," he cried out, "because you were healing with him, instead of here with me. I am your husband, Lyanna, and I was the father of your child. We lost that baby together, but another man healed your hurts."

She could hardly believe the jealousy in Rhaegar's voice, the anguish and the anger. Her stomach curdled uncomfortably. "Jaime wasn't the only one with me in the North," she explained, wiping away the rain from her cheeks, "I had my father, gods rest his soul, and my brothers, and my good-sisters and niece and nephew. _Winterfell_ healed me, not a _person_." 

"Whatever it was that healed you, it wasn't me," Rhaegar asserted with a certain sting of betrayal. "And now, in spite of everything that has happened, you mean to try and _leave me_ , as if I would _ever_ let you go again."

She felt ready to explode as every painful memory came back to her. "You shouldn't have let me go the first time!"

Rhaegar furrowed his brows. "What are you _talking_ about, Lyanna?"

"Dragonstone!" She screamed. "It was _you_ who cast the first stone. I had just lost our baby and you sent me away to an island to grieve and rot and _be_ alone! You're so angry at me for running away?" She laughed without humor. "Well, it was _you_ who gave me wings."

Rhaegar looked stricken. "I did that because I thought it would be best. I wanted to help you. I wanted to get you away from the Red Keep, where I knew only pain would greet you."

"Then let me go now!" She shouted in helpless frustration. "Because all I will get is _pain_ if I stay here!" Rhaegar shook his head quickly; Lyanna made a noise of anger. "Why are you fighting me? I am giving you what you want, I am letting you have another woman. _Why_ can't you just let me go, Rhaegar?"

There wasn't even a moment of hesitation. "Because," he roared, "you are the _love_ of my _life_!"

Lyanna went absolutely, completely still. Lightning struck silver on the horizon and rainwater poured down her back, soaking her clothes and her shoes, pruning her skin, _drowning_ her, but she couldn't even focus on any of that. 

She stared at Rhaegar in utter shock, frozen to her core, as his words resonated. They echoed in her head, muting the song of the thunder and rain sounding around her. _You are the love of my life, you are the love of my life, you are the love of my life._

Rhaegar looked at her with his soul turned inside out and his eyes ablaze. Lyanna took a shaky step forward and-

The door to the stairs swung open, revealing an arc of golden light. Lyanna blinked against the sudden brightness, squinting as Jaime stepped into the entrance. He glanced at her and her state in momentary confusion, then looked to Rhaegar. 

"Your Grace!" He called out, bringing with him relieving tidings, "Prince Viserys has woken!"

Lyanna's heart jumped, and she and Rhaegar met eyes for the briefest second, grey on purple. His lips parted as if he were about to say something, but he stopped himself. Then, he looked away and headed toward Jaime, slipping through the door and back down into Maegor's Holdfast, leaving her standing in the rain alone.


	71. Inadvertent Feint

The sun rose from its bed of black bay to beam liquid gold across the twisting cityscape of King's Landing. The morning was chilled, but bright, and seemed to wash the capital dry of its storm so that every alley, road, and rooftop gleamed fresh and golden. 

When a shaft of blinding light hit the window, Rhaegar blinked back, genuinely surprised to see the day beginning after such a long night of worrying. Morning had crept up on him as sneakily as a thief, heralding in the blue of the sky, the song of the little birds, and the lull of the sea. 

It was a perfect day, the heavens above cloudless and bright, the sun gleaming, the city coming to life slowly with shouts and laughter. Even the Red Keep seemed to shift from its sleepy, morose state, despite Rhaegar himself feeling exhausted down to his very bones. 

He had spent the entire night in a state of wake and unwake, periodically falling asleep for an hour or perhaps even a few minutes only to be thrust back into consciousness when some unknown nightmare struck him again. Viserys seemed to hover in the same frame of being, waking every so often to whine for water or honey or to expel his sick into a bucket before resting once more. 

Rhaegar had slept by his brother's bedside, with Rhaella on the other, and Maester Pycelle just outside. The Grand Maester had promised that if Viserys made it through the night, he would live. 

Morning dawned beautifully as Viserys opened his eyes, two glittering lilac chips, and groaned, "Water."

Rhaegar poured the cup himself, bringing it to Viserys' lips and helping him drink. Afterward, he asked, "How do you feel?"

Viserys frowned and lay back against the pillows. "Hungry," he whispered in a croaky voice.

It was a good sign. "I'll tell Maester Pycelle," Rhaegar promised. He tucked a limp silver strand away from Viserys' eyes. "I'm glad you're awake. You gave us all quite a scare."

"Lya?" Viserys rasped in question. 

It made sense for her to be on Viserys' mind, as she was the last face he saw before falling unconscious on his horse, but her name was still a knife in Rhaegar's heart. He tried not to recall every dirty, terrible thing he had said to her the night before, but failed. 

"She'll be thrilled to know you've woken. You can see her later, but for now, Maester Pycelle needs to check you, alright?"

Viserys nodded drowsily and allowed his eyes to droop in response. How he could ever sleep another minute was beyond Rhaegar. Quietly, he crept to his sleeping mother and tapped her awake. 

She came alive in a jerk. "What is it? What's wrong? Is he alright?"

Rhaegar shushed her quickly. "Vis is fine. He just woke for a moment and fell back asleep. I'm going to get the maester. If anything new happens, I'll be with Lyanna."

Rhaella nodded, coming fully awake, and touched his wrist with a gentle hand. "Make up with her."

Rhaegar frowned, ignoring his pulsing heart. "How did you...?"

"My dear," his mother smiled softly, "I always know when she is weighing on your heart. Go. Make things right."

Rhaegar closed his eyes, grateful, and squeezed her hand before leaving. Pycelle was milling about when he left the room, gathering salves and pots and other things. 

"Viserys woke just a moment ago," Rhaegar told him. "He said he was hungry."

"Very good," Pycelle nodded, ghosting to the door. "This is most welcome news. I will make sure to gather your council later so that you may discuss plans."

Rhaegar thought of his and Lyanna's fight. "Midday." Then he turned and left, eager to embrace everything that had happened so they could put it all behind them. 

But even as he strode through Maegor's Holdfast, purposeful and determined, Rhaegar knew this would not be easy. Or possible, even. 

It would be no matter that Viserys was awake and talking and eating; it would only solidify what the council had suggested the previous night. Viserys' death scare had left the castle on edge, and more heirs, more _Targaryens_ , were more important than ever. 

And Lyanna would be just as angry, as was her right. Not only for the business of paramours, but for what had transpired in words between them as well. 

When he went over in his head everything they had said to one another, everything he had said _to her_ , he was ashamed. Ashamed of himself, of his words, of his aching black heart that couldn't help but sink hooks into her soul to keep her put. 

For, by refusing her passage home, Rhaegar was essentially condemning Lyanna to a life of misery - a life where every waking moment would be a constant reminder of what she had lost, of what she could no longer do. It was a punishment more than a prize, her queendom, a punishment dealt out by his own selfish hand. 

Because it _was_ selfish, he realized. Forcing Lyanna to watch as another woman took her place in his bed, having to don her crown, all the while knowing he was crawling between another woman's naked thighs and giving her a part of himself that only _she_ was meant to have. 

Rhaegar grimaced at the thought. Other men might have accepted it, _rejoiced_ even, at the prospect of bringing another beautiful woman to bed. But just the thought of a stranger's legs wrapped around his hips, another girl's fingers in his hair, a moan of ecstasy in his ear...all he'd be able to think about was Lyanna and how sick it made him to break what they had. 

If he forced her to stay, she would never forgive him - not even if forty years went by. She never would. She was as stubborn as she was fierce, and her forgiveness did not come cheap. Or easy. 

But...the fear of losing her was far more terrifying to him than the possibility of her hating him forevermore. Rhaegar could deal with her storms and her rages and her hates, her jibes and silences and anger. 

He could take it all, so long as he still _had_ her, and that was the blackest part about him. 

When he came upon her chambers, Benjen was sitting guard; he wore the Stark colors in grey breeches, white tunic, dark grey boots, and a striped grey-and-white doublet. His face was tired and sad. 

"Your Grace," Benjen stood and took a step to the left. Right in front of Lyanna's door, blocking Rhaegar's way. 

"Benjen," Rhaegar returned slowly, skeptically. Everything about Benjen's stance screamed _obstacle_ : his stiff posture, the clenched fists, the coiled muscles. "Is Lyanna inside?"

Benjen nodded immediately. "She is." He made no move to step out of the way despite the confirmation. 

Rhaegar frowned. "Well, I need to see her. I need to-" _Apologize. Beg. Relent._ "-speak with her."

"You can't," Benjen blurted, as if he wanted the words out of his mouth as quickly as possible. 

"I can't?" Rhaegar repeated. He could feel hysteria rising in him like a wave. What if the fight had sent her over the edge? What if she never wanted to speak to him again? He couldn't bear it, _wouldn't_ bear it, if she had posted Benjen as her guard, the wolf pup meant to ward off the dragon. 

"No, Your Grace," Benjen returned. The boy seemed both in a mode of protection and trepidation, wanting to guard his sister but wary of angering his king. "She's sick."

Rhaegar froze, his blood, his veins, his brain, his _heart_. "Sick?" His head began to swim. All of Pycelle's warnings came rushing back, warnings of preventing Viserys' sickness from spreading. The old bent maester had told Lyanna to stay in her chambers, in case she had caught the sickness. _No..._

"Yes," Benjen breathed. "She came to Brandon's chambers late last night to see Maester Luwin and Arra. She wasn't there for a moment before she started vomiting."

A shiver went up Rhaegar's spine. He imagined her, upset and angry at him after their fight, after he left her, and going to her brother for comfort, but instead being struck with the little prince's malady. _No, no, no..._ "Benjen, I need to see her. If she's sick-"

"The maester asked me not to allow anyone inside while he's helping her." Benjen's tone was apologetic and strong, yet childlike somehow, much like Lyanna's. 

Rhaegar shook his head, every ounce of his fatigue sapped away by the frantic energy pulsing through him. "I- I _need_ to see her, Benjen, you don't realize how important this is."

 _I hate you_ , he'd told her last night, _so much._

 _You are the love of my life_ , he'd confessed with the night wind and the rain bearing down on them both, and only the sky and stars above. 

He couldn't let her lay in her room, sick or, worse, _dying_ , without confronting either of his statements. He needed to go down to his knees before her and grovel for his words. He needed to press his lips to hers and tell her his heart was hers. 

"I realize you may want to speak with her, Your Grace, but I have strict orders from Brandon, Maester Luwin, and Lyanna herself, _not_ to allow anyone in. That includes you, my king, no matter the consequences."

Rhaegar blew out a breath of frustration for his good-brother's iron will. "I'm not going to punish you, Benjen, but..." He needed the words. He looked into Benjen's grey eyes, Stark eyes, two chips of ice that were in the shade of his sister's. 

"She is my _wife_ ," Rhaegar whispered in a broken breath, "I cannot lose her."

Benjen's face softened. "I know that. If..." He paused. "When the maester is finished checking her, I will come find you myself. No matter how angry she'll be at me."

Despite his sickening worry, Rhaegar found a small smile for his good-brother. "I'll be in a small council meeting soon," he said, "but you have my permission to interrupt. When the maester is done, you find me. No matter what."

Benjen nodded seriously. "Of course." He would be a most excellent Kingsguard one day. 

But his affirmation was not enough for Rhaegar's sinking heart. If he strained his ears, he could almost hear her retching through the wooden door. The sound made him think of her first and only pregnancy, how she'd get sick at the slightest smell or even just upon waking, expelling any food she'd had in her stomach. 

"Promise me," Rhaegar implored his good-brother desperately. 

Benjen blinked, as if surprised by the intensity of his king's tone, and straightened up. "I promise."

* * *

Lyanna's stomach twisted violently as she heaved the final bits of last night's dinner into her chamber pot, the acid of her bile burning her throat and nose. She felt exhausted, well and truly, from her head down to her toes. Her arms were shaking from holding up her own weight and her knees were sore. 

All she'd done after Rhaegar's and her fight was heave her stomach dry, while her brothers and Maester Luwin worried over her. Benjen had wanted to get Rhaegar almost instantly, but Lyanna had forced him to promise he wouldn't bother her husband. He was with his brother, where he needed to be, and besides that, she wasn't sure where they stood. 

But as the hours went by, her throat and stomach equally sore, Lyanna wasn't completely certain she _wasn't_ dying. It made her remember her morning sickness with her first and only pregnancy, only violently worse now. 

She'd caught Viserys when he'd fallen from his horse unconscious, had worn his sick on her clothing. It was no wonder she had caught his ailment herself. 

"Your Grace, do you think you could drink some water now?" Maester Luwin knelt beside her, placing a soothing hand between her shoulder blades. 

Lyanna took a deep breath in and sat back, wiping her mouth with the rag in her hand. "Yes," she whispered. "I can drink."

Luwin reached for the pitcher of water and poured her a cup. When the first cool drops hit her ravaged throat, Lyanna could have sworn she was in heaven. She drank the entire thing down, and worked on a second. 

Luwin laid the back of his hand against her forehead. "Your skin is burning," he noticed. "Have you been sweating or aching lately?"

Lyanna shook her head. She'd had a fever before, twice in Winterfell growing up, so she was familiar with the signs and symptoms of one. She did not have a fever. 

"Odd," Luwin said quietly, getting to his feet. He helped Lyanna up and into a large stuffed chair. "Other than the nausea, how do you feel?"

Lyanna closed her eyes, fatigued. She was wary of admitting that, besides her vomiting, she felt perfectly fine; she didn't want to hope that Viserys' sickness would not affect her as it had him. "Sore," she supplied vaguely instead, feeling a painful twinge in her breast.  

"Sore?" Maester Luwin repeated as he prepared a pot of honey for her throat.  

"Yes," she said, "but that has more to do with my being a _woman_ than being ill." She hoped he understood her meaning; he was a maester of the Citadel, had birthed Catelyn and Ned's son, but it still shamed Lyanna to speak of such things as impending bloods. Still, her breasts were so swollen and tender, it was worth mentioning. 

"Ah," Luwin hummed knowingly, bringing her the little honeypot. "Anything else?"

Lyanna took the small wooden spoon and dribbled honey into her mouth, relishing the sweetness on her poor, raw throat. "Mainly the nausea, and a few times getting physically sick. Grand Maester Pycelle warned me of the dangers of having been so close to Viserys."

"Maester Pycelle," Luwin tested on his tongue softly. Luwin had a trusting face, a sweet, grandfatherly look, but in that moment he seemed too casual to truly _be_ casual. "If I may, Your Grace - and forgive me if this is too forward - but the Grand Maester was the one to proclaim you barren, was he not?"

Lyanna's eyes flashed up, her chest squeezing in pain. Dragonstone was a tender spot on her heart, one that ached like a bruise when touched on; she could feel its beat behind her eyes, pulsing. "He was," she answered slowly.  

"And the Grand Maester," Luwin said gently, "did he ever explain why he diagnosed you as unable to bear children again?"

Lyanna thought to the day he had told her; she remembered his soft voice, her cries, the way her fists had balled up, but not his reasoning. He'd never given her one, nor to Rhaegar at Dragonstone. 

"No," she answered hesitantly. She watched Luwin pace the room, wary and confused. "Maester Pycelle only said that the miscarriage had caused my womb too much damage to ever quicken with child again." The words stung to repeat. 

Luwin nodded absentmindedly, as if thinking. "How have you been eating lately?" He asked suddenly, stopping in his tracks and staring into her eyes. 

Lyanna frowned and shrugged. "Just fine really." She remembered the way the swan had made bile bubble in her gut. "A few foods I cannot eat anymore for their smells, but other than that, I'm alright."

"And your hunger?" He pressed. 

"Normal," she murmured. "I've been a bit hungrier than usual lately, but I daresay that has to do with playing with the children every day."

Luwin kept staring at her. There was something in his gaze that made the hairs on her arm stand on end, that made her want to fidget. "Have you and His Grace King Rhaegar," he lowered his voice to a gentle cadence, "lain together since your coming back?"

Lyanna swallowed heavily. She forgot her embarrassment, any shame of intimacy. "Nearly every day since the night I arrived to King's Landing," she replied breathlessly. Her head began to swim. 

Luwin gave her a look of knowing, as if their minds had connected and come to the same conclusion. "Lyanna," he said in a very soft voice, ghosting forward a few steps, "when was your last moon blood?"

Lyanna went cold all over. It had been a long while, she knew, _weeks_ and _weeks_ ago. She hadn't yet bled in King's Landing or even on the trip _to_ the capital. She vaguely remembered her blood coming while still home at Winterfell, and that had been even before Ned had received the invitation to the tourney and coronation. 

Lyanna took ahold of her throat with a shaking hand. "It's been two months if I am remembering correctly," she answered quietly. Her heart beat so hard in her chest, she worried a tiny smith was hammering it like a forge. 

"And they were regular before you came back to the capital?" Luwin pressed. "They came every month?"

Lyanna felt her throat go dry. "Every month, without fail," she breathed, afraid...afraid to hope. _No_ , she thought to herself in rising parts of panic and ecstatic desperation, _Pycelle told me I was broken, barren, damaged for eternity. He promised my body would never grow with Rhaegar's seed again, that I would never give him princes and princesses, his little dragons._

Luwin nodded as if he had expected such an answer. He came to her on silent feet, sitting beside her. "Your Grace, you are not ill."

Tears filled Lyanna's eyes as she looked up, both dreading and near ready to _die_ to hear his words. Anticipation balled in her throat. "I'm not?"

Luwin smiled and shook his head. "No, my dear," he told her gently, "you are pregnant."


	72. The Royal Wing

The bickering and verbal sparring of Rhaegar's small council was enough to make him want to drive an iron spike through his temple - if only for the sweet silence of death, to be free from the show of their lordly condescension over one another, the growls and threats, to be rid of the constant boasting of power and clout. 

Out of the council, only Varys the Spider was quiet, sitting neatly in his chair: arms folded into the long sleeves of his robes, powdered face still and peaceful, an air of calm surrounding him. The only thing that belied Varys' interest was the set of his mouth, slanted just so, tilted. Varys was _enjoying_ this. Quarrels and destruction seemed to be the vices of the man with no balls.

 _That's what they think of me, too_ , Rhaegar thought suddenly as he saw Jon Connington and Brandon Stark snap and snark at one another. _They think I have no balls, to gripe and fight this way before me like children._ He'd had enough. 

The way his palms suddenly slammed against the tabletop made the worst, high noise Rhaegar had ever heard; the wood sent a stinging pain through his hands and arms, rattling his bones. It set his small council on edge, each and every one frozen in place, mouths open and watching him with wary eyes. 

Rhaegar worked his jaw before glancing up, gracing each lord with a passing glare. "My lords," he said quietly, "can anyone tell me why the kingdoms in my land are now considered a realm as a whole? Why there are no more Storm Kings, or Kings of Winter, or Kings of the Rock?"

His lords exchanged confused glances, muttering, all but Varys. Lord Monford cocked his head, "Your Grace?"

Rhaegar met his eyes. "I asked you all a question. Someone needs to answer me."

Lord Monford swallowed heavily, unsure, but it was Grand Maester Pycelle who spoke next. "Aegon the Conquerer and his sisters conquered the kingdoms, Your Grace, and united them as a whole. The kings were vanquished and then became merely lords."

Rhaegar looked over the old bent maester, feeling that same irrational hate bubbling up inside him just like every other time he spoke. "And from what House did Aegon the Conquerer hail?" He turned to look at his Master of Coin. "Jon?"

Jon Connington stared him down brazenly, clenching his jaw like he was biting down on a leathern strap. "House Targaryen," he bit out, "Your Grace."

Rhaegar knocked one fist casually against the top of the table. "Targaryen," he said, "the same surname that I was born to, the same blood which flows through my veins. Isn't that right, Lord Stark?"

Brandon's cool grey eyes landed on his good-brother. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Your Grace," Rhaegar mused in dark delight, "do you know why they call me that, Lord Tywin?"

Tywin Lannister lifted his chin haughtily, gripping the rests of his chair with faux calm. His pale green eyes hid some dark glint, the same glint that had once met King Aerys. "Because you are the king."

Rhaegar's expression darkened as he looked to each and every one of his council members then, searing them in place with the heat of his dragon eyes. "Because," he said slowly, "I am king. It is a statement that should never need to be uttered by a king, and yet you all seem to need to be reminded that _you_ work at _my_ behest. _Not_ the other way around."

"Your Grace," Jon began, but stopped at Rhaegar's cutting glare. 

"I have heard enough of your squabbling, peddling your slander about my wife, the words, the looks. Your insolence goes beyond sanity, my lord." Rhaegar stood tall and raised his chin. "This council needs a rebuild, and I am prepared to give it one. I-"

The door slammed open so hard, a torch fell from its sconce, spreading little flames across the corner of the Myrish carpet blanketing the floor. Lord Tywin jumped back in surprise and Jon cried out. A servant in the corner rushed to throw the decanter of water in his hand over the fire, dousing it quickly, but Lyanna stood uncaring in the doorway. 

She was still as a ghost, dressed in a pretty white dress, staring him down with the loveliest, widest pair of grey, grey eyes. They were full of fear, those eyes, but more potent than that, shock and awe and excitement and happiness. Pure, unadulterated happiness. 

Rhaegar frowned at her entrance, caught off guard by the slamming of the door, the silence, the elderly man in maester's robes behind her. But above all that, it was the tears forming in her eyes, turning them to grey glass, and the smile spreading on her face that truly shocked him still. 

He saw something there in her that made his heart begin to pound. Hard. Painful, hammering so that his chest vibrated with the force of its beat. His lips parted against that queer feeling that suddenly overtook him, a tingling that overcame every nerve and vein and bone in his body. 

Off to the right, Brandon stood up, leaning against the table with both hands. "Lya," he murmured in concern. 

But it was as if she hadn't heard her brother at all. Lyanna only had eyes for Rhaegar; they looked at one another with the intensity of a thousand suns, silently communicating, though Rhaegar could not decipher the thoughts between himself and her. 

And then...

...Lyanna's left hand, which had been hanging limp at her side, slowly rose, sliding up and over her hip to smooth across and lay against her stomach. The way she clenched her fingers into her belly, the breathless set of her mouth, and the loaded look she gave him made something coil in Rhaegar's chest: the hope he had put to bed on Dragonstone. 

"Lyanna," he whispered, fear, hope, and anticipation quivering in his voice. 

She laughed without sound, a genuine smile lighting up her every feature, as tears slid down her cheeks. It was as if the gods themselves had put the sudden thought into his head, a thought that would break his heart if it was wrong. _Please_ , he prayed. _No_ , he thought. 

"Lyanna," he repeated shakily, taking a step forward. 

Her grin split. "I'm pregnant."

The room went silent for five full seconds before Maester Pycelle stood from his chair with surprising strength. "It's not possible!" He gasped. 

Lyanna and Rhaegar stared into each other's eyes. "How," he whispered, tears clouding his vision, "how?"

She shook her head, but ended up bursting into laughter. "Maester Luwin," she waved a hand to the elderly maester with the grandfatherly smile. "I was throwing up, feverish, but I had no fever. Rhaegar," she stepped forward, "I've been nauseated, sick, my skin is hot. I'm sore and tired." Her smile grew. "My moon blood hasn't come in nearly two months."

His heart went berserk in its cage. 

And though it was ludicrous, impossible, out of this world, Rhaegar _knew_. There wasn't an ounce of doubt or disbelief in him as she had said those words. _I'm pregnant._

He suddenly remembered sleeping at Viserys' side the night before. Restless, awful sleep it had been, riddled with nightmares. Except for once. The very last time he had fallen asleep, he'd had _that_ dream again; the one with _that_ boy, dark-haired and lean and tall, with Lyanna's face and his eyes. It was a sign. 

"Maester Luwin?" Rhaegar asked, looking to the man. 

Luwin inclined his head. "It is true, Your Grace. I've helped many carrying women. The queen was misdiagnosed at Dragonstone."

Rhaegar's eyes fell to Lyanna's belly. He blinked as the overwhelming realization shot through him. Lyanna was carrying _that boy_ , the one he had dreamt of; the prince that was promised was growing inside her right this moment, a little seed blooming. 

Rhaegar went to her in three long strides and kissed her hard on the mouth, completely drowning out every voice that sounded out around them in protest, in wonderment. He did not care; all that mattered was her belly pressed against him, her lips warm on his mouth, her hands in his hair. 

When he drew back from her, her eyes were dazed but her smile was still there. His own grin ached. He wanted to do so many things at that moment: kiss her again, love her, laugh, cry, pray thanks for his little miracle babe. 

"I have something for you," he realized suddenly instead, remembering. It was as perfect a time as any. 

"Your Grace," Pycelle called out in disbelief, interrupting. 

Rhaegar froze, locking eyes with Lyanna. If she was with child, then... Dragonstone, all the months apart, his council forcing the idea of second wives and paramours on him. It had all been for nothing, torture for one man's incompetence. Or deception. 

"Ser Gerold," Rhaegar called in a voice like iron, "escort the Grand Maester to the dungeons and lock him up."

"Your Grace," Pycelle screeched, "for what am I being imprisoned? Please! My king!"

Rhaegar half-turned and gave the man he hated a long, chilling look. "Treason," he said. "Lying to your king is one of the highest offenses. You will have a trial soon. I suggest you use your imprisonment as time to prepare for your defense. That is, if you even have one." He turned back to Lyanna then. "My lords, you can return to your chambers if you like. I will not be bothered further. For the rest of the day, I will be occupied."

He grabbed Lyanna's hand and pulled her from the room before anyone else could object. Her laughter filled the halls as he ran from the small council chambers, nearly dragging her through the Red Keep in his excited haste.

But it was all too much. The pregnancy, the babe, his son, his _prince_. He stopped and pushed her up against the wall before he knew what he was doing, pressing his mouth to her throat hungrily. 

His mind was racing. He had so many questions, he wanted to _do_ so many things. To quell the chaos in his head, he tattooed kisses on her skin and ran his hands up her chest while she chuckled breathlessly.

"You're sure?" He murmured against her jaw suddenly. He wanted - no, _needed_ \- to hear her say it again. It had been an entire year of torture for the both of them: broken down, separated, and nearly forced to procreate outside his marriage bonds. "Say it," he urged.

Lyanna sighed happily as he kissed the hollow of her throat. "I'm carrying your baby," she whispered, dragging her nails across his scalp. He smiled into her skin. 

She continued. "Maester Luwin says more signs will follow soon, and in a few months, my belly will grow. And this time, you'll be here to see it."

The thought of Lyanna with a swelling stomach and glowing skin made every part of him ready to explode in sheer happiness. He gripped her hip and pulled her harder against him, letting his other hand snake up her thigh. 

Someone gasped nearby. "My king!"

Lyanna jumped in surprise; Rhaegar pulled back, slightly dazed and running on exhilaration, and turned to meet eyes with Lady Cersei Lannister. She wore a lovely gown of emerald green, her golden hair cascading down her torso, and the most scandalized expression Rhaegar had ever seen on her face. 

He tried to find some semblance of shame, but could not; he tried to fight his smile and lost. "My apologies, Lady Cersei," he said with absolutely no remorse. He stepped back and put a few inches of space between himself and Lyanna. "You caught us in a moment of excitement."

Cersei tried a smile back, but it looked as if she was biting into a poisoned apple. At her sides, her arms were tensed. "Excitement, Your Grace?" She ground out formally, looking between her king and queen. 

Rhaegar grinned despite Cersei's discomfort and looked to Lyanna, ghosting his hand over her flat stomach. "Your queen is with child."

Cersei's smile died as suddenly as it came, her lips parting. "H-how?" She stuttered in disbelief. Her eyes were glittering emeralds full of anger. "You were barren."

Lyanna frowned at Cersei's insolence, but still raised her chin and looked into her eyes, grey on green. "It was a mistaken diagnosis by Maester Pycelle," she said evenly. "But I thank you for your congratulations, my lady." Cersei had given none. 

Cersei looked ready to fall into ashes, her fair skin reddening. No doubt she still held a candle for him, still held onto the belief she would one day be his queen. Rhaegar could not care less; he had a pregnant wife to worship, and a surprise to bestow. 

"My lady, please excuse us." He threaded his fingers through Lyanna's own, and ran away a second time that afternoon. 

He took her at a hurried pace through the castle and toward Maegor's, racing over the drawbridge and past Ser Brynden Tully, and deep into the royal holdfast. They passed Lyanna's chambers first, Rhaegar's own, went by Viserys' rooms and then Rhaella's. 

They went as deep into Maegor's as possible, so far that the stones in the floors and on the walls turned a different color: newer, cleaner, unbleached from the sun. 

"What are we doing here?" Lyanna asked, furrowing her brows as she took in the sight of the empty, mint corridor. 

Rhaegar smiled over his shoulder, leading her down the hall. "This is the king's wing," he explained. All of the builders had finished their work entirely and cleaned their tools and materials so it was eerily empty, quiet and echoing as they moved within. 

"It was being renovated," Lyanna remembered quietly, looking around at the doors on either side. 

He pulled her around the last corner, quietly, and stopped. Not thirty feet ahead was the end of the hallway, where a set of gilded double doors stood tall and shining gold. Lyanna's hand tightened into his. "What's that?"  

Rhaegar smiled down at her. "Go on and see."

Lyanna frowned, glancing quickly up at him, before moving forward with a ghost's grace. He followed behind her, watching as she approached the double doors with trepidation.

When she touched one of the handles, she paused in hesitation. Rhaegar came up behind her, snaking one hand around her, and put his hand atop hers to push open the door. 

The golden door fell open without a sound, revealing the room within. Rhaegar pushed Lyanna lightly inside. 

It was not the first time he had seen the apartment in its finished state; Tom, his main builder, had pulled him away the day he and Lyanna were supposed to visit Rhaella's crypt in the sept, the day Viserys fell, to show the finished work. 

Yet its splendor still took his breath away a second time. The first room was the reception room, decorated with white marble floors veined with silver and red velvet furnishings made for calling guests. On the walls hung tapestries of Targaryen history and black iron sconces with unlit torches. Into the far door, an oak-and-iron door was set. 

Lyanna spun around, taking it in. "Is this a meeting room?" She wondered, trailing her fingers down the low wooden table between the couches. 

Rhaegar grinned. "Of sorts." He went to the oak-and-iron door and waited. "Perhaps you should check the next room."

Lyanna watched the door in equal parts fear and excitement. "What's in there?"

Rhaegar tsked playfully. "No more questions, Your Grace."

Lyanna smiled, bit her lip, and came forward, sliding past him and through the next door. He heard her gasp before he followed behind, his eyes taking in the magnificence of the bedroom. 

The bedroom was the crown jewel of the apartment: it was a massive room with gleaming black marble floors carpeted with ornate Myrish rugs, walls of dark stone that were dotted with mirrored torch sconces, and enameled black velvet furnishings. 

Into the western wall was a generous alcove, with a deep bathing pool set into the floor; the bath was forged of black marble and chipped with squares of silver, with a white sheet of silk to hang in the entrance for privacy. 

Pushed against the northern wall was a massive canopy bed, each of its four posters carved into the shape of twisting rose vines, complete with wooden thorns and winter roses painted blue. It was a deep and lovely featherbed, covered with snowy satin and velvet coverlings, and shrouded with white canopy silks. Above the headboard hung the bone-white shield that Lyanna's father had gifted them for their wedding, made of weirwood, rimmed with red, and carved with a face in the likeness of a heart tree. 

The eastern wall was more window than wall, a splendid stained glass and jewel mosaic made to look like a direwolf racing across a field of winter roses as a great dragon soared overhead. The direwolf was stained grey glass, the roses were of sapphire chips, the sky was clear glass, and the dragon was onyx with flecks of garnet. The sunlight was a rainbow glowing in. 

"This is beautiful," Lyanna breathed with wide eyes, spinning around like a child. 

He thought of the nursery he would need to add to the wing. "This," he smiled, "is yours."

Lyanna stopped and looked to him in surprise. "Mine?"

"Well," Rhaegar came forward, unable to keep his eyes off her stomach, "in truth, it is one half yours." He reached out to touch her hair. "I built it for _us_."

Lyanna's lips parted. "You did?"

He nodded. "The man who came to find me the day you and Viserys rode through the city - Tom - he has been overseeing the wing's construction. I didn't want to live in separate chambers anymore, so I had this built for us to be together."

Her grey eyes widened into stormy crystal chips. "You-" She stopped and shook her head, smiling softly. "I can't believe you did this."

"Believe it," he murmured. He bent to place his lips against hers, relishing her sweetness. "Come on." He took her by the hand then, and pulled her across the room. When they reached the bed, he toed off his boots, she did the same, and they climbed atop the bed. 

Their knees sank into the mattress like a cloud, and the sheets were cool against their skin. Lyanna lay back against the pillows, her hair splayed like a burst of chestnut. Rhaegar slid in beside her, propping himself up on one elbow and looked down on her. 

He was struck stupid with happiness, eager to _bask_ in it, but there was one thing he had to do before he could. "Forgive me, Lyanna," he said suddenly.

Lyanna blinked up at him, frowning. "For what?"

Rhaegar took a deep, shamed breath. "For everything I put you through since you lost the baby. I sent you away, and let you go, and nearly forced you to stay here against your will because I'm cruel and selfish and don't know how to be without you anymore."

Lyanna's eyes got glassy and she turned her head. "I understood, I hope you know." She sighed. "I knew you needed heirs but I couldn't stand to watch you be with someone else."

He put two fingers to her jaw and turned her face back to him. "I don't ever want to be with anyone but you," he bent and said the words against her lips. " _Ever_. And I am sorry for ever suggesting it."

"You are a king, Rhaegar, I understood, but still...you are forgiven." She pressed a kiss into his mouth. 

When Rhaegar drew back, he ghosted his hands down her body and molded them to her stomach. He wondered if the life beneath could feel the heat of his hands, the cadence of his voice. "I'm so deliriously happy," he said quietly.

Lyanna smiled. "As am I."

His mood turned grey. "I am going to kill Pycelle," he whispered darkly.

Lyanna made no expression to his declaration. "You must hear his words before you make your decision. If you cannot bear to do that, perhaps he does not deserve to die. My father taught us that."

Rhaegar scowled. "Pycelle nearly tore our marriage apart. That will not be without consequences."

"I agree," she murmured, raking her fingers through his silvery hair. "Let us talk of other things than death and punishments now, _happier_ things." She looked down. "Like the babe growing inside me."

The mention of his prince brought an instant grin to his face, brought softness to his anger. He slid down the bed so that he was eye-level with her stomach and began to press soft words and kisses there, hoping his dragon could feel its father's warmth. 

He stayed there for a while, alternating between pressing his ear to her belly and ghosting his lips between her hips. Lyanna stroked his scalp as he showered her with adoration, and for the first time in a year, he felt truly at peace. 

Her words were a sword blade through his throat when they sounded out.

"I love you," she whispered into the silence of the room. 

Rhaegar froze for a moment, and pulled slowly back from kissing her stomach to look into her eyes. There was no fear there in the grey, only peace and calm and...

"What?" He asked stupidly. 

"I am in love with you," Lyanna answered without hesitation. She regarded him thoughtfully. "Last night, you told me I was the love of your life...and I wanted you to know that you're mine, too."

Rhaegar's smile spread across his face and he slid up his wife's body, going to hover over her. "Say it again," he ordered in a breath. 

Lyanna smiled, biting her lip before meeting his gaze boldly. "I love you," and then for insolence, " _Your Grace_."

He forgave that bit of amusement, and instead thought of months and months past - a tourney to find his bride, a girl in mismatched armor, a crown of winter roses. A raining wedding day, a cold wedding night, and an early marriage built on mistrust and misunderstanding. 

Mad days, a mad father, mad lust for the girl he _knew_ was his ice. A battle, blood, an island fortress of stone dragons and a separation that created a chasm in his heart only _she_ could mend. 

Rhaegar looked deep into her eyes, remembering every terrible, wonderful moment of their marriage so far - lack of trust, a timid understanding, lust, anger, jealousy, reconciliation. And now, an ice prince in her belly. Rhaegar kissed her one more time and gave her his heart. "I love you, Lyanna Stark."


	73. The Trial

He found his mother that morning breaking her fast beneath the golden arch of a high, open window, nibbling on fruits and little roasted fish in the quiet of Viserys' sickroom. She'd already dressed for the day in lilac silks and silver jewelry, her own metallic hair pulled back into a severe bun. When Rhaegar stepped over the threshold, she looked up and smiled. 

"My dear," she said lightly, "come in, come in. _Eat_. The cooks surely made enough."

And they had. Besides the fish and fruits, there was fried bread, bacon, a yellow custard, an assortment of cheeses and crackers, and a steaming plate of eggs. Rhaegar sat across the table from her and piled together bacon and eggs on a thick slab of fried bread. 

"Did you make things right?" was the first thing she decided to ask. 

Rhaegar's heart stuttered. "With Lyanna?" A wide smile grew on his face. "Yes." The soreness in his muscles, after all, was not only from lack of sleep. 

Rhaella gave him a confused smile back. "I am glad to hear it." Viserys suddenly sputtered from his bed, still asleep, the mucus in his throat rattling as he breathed and turned on his side. "Maester Pycelle should be here soon to check on Vis. He slept well through the night. Only woke once."

At the mention of the Grand Maester, Rhaegar's mood darkened. "About that, Mother..."

His pause, the hesitance, his dark cadence, all put his mother on edge. "What is it?"

He decided not to make her wait. He came straight out with it. "Lyanna is pregnant."

Rhaella blinked, as if she had misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"Lyanna is pregnant," he repeated, grinning despite himself. "I left her sleeping this morning, otherwise she would be here as well." He still wasn't sure if she would be angry at his haste in telling of the news without her, but his willpower had been overcome by his sheer joy. 

"You're sure she's carrying?" When he nodded, Rhaella breathed out a laugh. "How did you come to find this out? Maester Pycelle swore she was barren from the trauma of the miscarriage."

Rhaegar nodded gravely. "That he did," he muttered darkly. "The maester from Winterfell came to King's Landing by Brandon Stark's summons. His daughter was sick and he does not trust the Grand Maester." _Rightfully so_ , he thought privately. 

"After our fight, Lyanna became sick with signs that mirrored Viserys' illness. She was burning up and vomiting, but she ran no fever. She confided to Maester Luwin that her moon blood hasn't come in a couple of months, and that her appetite has drastically changed."

Rhaella's eyes got wider. "The swan," she whispered. Some memory dawned on her, making her eyes glassy with remembrance. 

"What was that, Mother?"

Rhaella shook her head, in both response and to clear her mind. "Nothing, nothing." She closed her eyes for one moment, smiling with the light of the sun, then reached out to lay her hand over his. Her eyes sparkled when she opened them again. "This is wonderful, _wonderful_ news."

Rhaegar agreed. "I'll have to bring Tom back to build a nursery in the new wing now." Just the thought of a babe's cradle wrought in iron and wood and velvets made his heart squeeze. 

His mother came to a different thought. "Maester Pycelle lied then," she murmured quietly, realization coming to shroud her like a black cape. 

"Or so he denies," Rhaegar bit out angrily. "I imprisoned him yesterday. Ser Gerold took him to the dungeons personally."

"There will be a trial?"

Rhaegar nodded. "There must be, though I fear nothing in heaven or earth could sway me from seeing him swing. I hate him, Mother, for what he nearly destroyed. No punishment could be too severe for his deception."

Rhaella seemed troubled, her eyes distant almost. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. "You cannot allow your fire to cloud your sense, my boy."

She was right, he knew, but it did not temper the flames roaring in his chest. Pycelle needed to pay for his sin. "My sense is clear," he said, though he was uncertain of its clarity. 

His mother nodded, but as if she did not believe a word he said. She cleared her throat, raising her eyes; in them, he saw a faint ghost of what she used to be. That scared, broken woman Aerys had tortured. Rhaegar did not like it. 

"When is it?" She finally asked. "The trial?"

After leaving Lyanna that morning, her naked and tantalizing and sleeping in bed, Rhaegar had gathered the rest of his small council in the council chambers. Together, they had decreed the trial would take place in a week's time with all of Court in attendance for the severity of the accused crime. 

"Seven days," Rhaegar replied, biting into his breakfast finally. Seven days and he would get his justice. Both for Lyanna _and_ himself.

* * *

It was a week later that the trial was held in the Great Hall. Lyanna, miserable with morning sickness, was left behind in their chambers as Rhaegar left with his Kingsguards. On one hand, he yearned for her steady presence, but on the other, he worried what seeing Pycelle would do to her. 

Court had already amassed when he arrived. The double doors were held open by heralds. His guards went before him, all but Ser Gerold who stood at his shoulder; he entered the throne hall last, as custom dictated. He was somberly dressed for the occasion, in head to toe black, and donned the crystal-cut crown he'd been blessed with at his coronation.

The whole of the hall quieted and went to their knees before him as he strode inside, staying down with their heads bowed even as he climbed the high steps to his iron seat. 

Only when he was seated did they rise. There was a sea of faces before him on his throne: his good-brothers Benjen and Lord Brandon, his wife Lady Ashara, and their babe Arra; there was Lord Tywin, his brother Kevan, their sister Genna, and of course, Lady Cersei; Varys and Jon Connington, Lord Monford with his pale blonde wife. A vast crew of Gold Cloaks crusted the perimeter of the room, as well as the entourage of Casterly Rock soldiers and a smattering of Northerners that stayed with Brandon and Benjen. Countless others he did not care to remember were also there. 

At the base of Rhaegar's throne was a semi-circle of his White Swords, the very leftmost Ser Brynden, then Ser Jaime, Lord Commander Ser Gerold, Arthur, Barristan the Bold, and lastly, Oswell. 

Rhaegar looked to the side door where a burly gaoler waited for his command. "Bring in the accused."

The gaoler nodded and disappeared through the door, only to reappear a minute later. Another gaoler came with him this time, and between them was a sickly looking man. 

Rhaegar almost couldn't believe it was Pycelle. Leaning heavily on a cane, as much as his fetters would allow, the bent maester seemed more a spring chicken that seasoned man of the Citadel. His magnificent white beard had been shaved clean off, as well as the few sprigs of hair that had once graced his head, so he was left bald and exposed of liver-spotted jowls and quivering chins. 

His eyes were so bloodshot, Rhaegar could make out the color from atop his throne, and his claw-like hand was shivering violently. He'd been given roughspun garb to wear in lieu of his maester's robes, the scratchy, shapeless tunic reaching down to his slippered feet. 

He was brought to the center of the room and unshackled. The room erupted into murmurs. The arrival of the High Septon, pure and glittering in his cloth-of-silver and crystal accessories, silenced them.

Before the trial could begin, the High Septon said a prayer to the Father for a truthful revelation. After, he turned to Pycelle. "Grand Maester Pycelle, you stand accused of high treason by way of deceiving your king and queen for unknown gains." He paused a moment. "How do you answer to this?"

"I did not lie," the maester asserted immediately. He shook his head violently. " _No_."

"Admit your guilt, Grand Maester, and I might withhold my sword," Rhaegar sounded out. This piece of justice he would do himself, as the First Men once had, like the Starks _still_ did. It would grant him immense satisfaction to see off the last roach in his bed. 

"I have no guilt to lay down, Your Grace, I swear to the gods!" Pycelle leaned heavily on the cane as he stared upward. 

Rhaegar sighed deeply, frustrated. He had hoped, however wildly, that the maester would freely admit to his wrongdoings so that the trial would not last all morning and night. He would be damned before it lasted more than a day. 

Rhaegar tore his eyes away from the bent maester and looked to Lord Tywin. "Did the Grand Maester produce any names in his confinement?"

His Hand shook his head ruefully, the golden hue of his whiskers catching the light. "No, Your Grace, none."

Rhaegar grew angrier. He looked back at Pycelle. "You have had an entire week to summon any witness that may share your blame. You were given parchment, quill, and time, and yet you wrote not a name. Why is that?"

"Your Grace," Pycelle's voice quivered, "I had no names to give because I am innocent of this crime."

"Innocent," Rhaegar's tone turned from iron to ice. "You falsely labeled my wife - _your queen_ \- barren, leaving me to believe I was to have no heirs from our marital union. 

"Since then, there has been serious talk of outsourcing to second wives and paramours from the suggestion of my small council. Your misdiagnosis was a poisonous root that nearly stopped the tree from bearing."

"It was a mistake," Pycelle said desperately. "It was not premeditated. Were I attempting to thwart Her Grace the Queen, would I not have put actions into play that would have kept her from laying with you? And clearly I did not do that."

The insolence was hot oil poured into his flayed nerves. "You dare to admit that you would have taken measures to act against me and my queen to serve your own ends?"

"No," Pycelle cried, "I only mean to point out the stupidity of the crime, had I committed it, which I did not. To lie about Her Grace's condition would require further action, and I took none. I truly believed Queen Lyanna was barren, her womb ruined from the trauma of her miscarriage. It was an accident."

"An oversight," Rhaegar said dully. 

He shook his head and turned his eyes to his sea of Court, catching all their eyes boring into him. Morbid curiosity was a mask they all wore, as if this were a simple show and not a knife's edge that nearly toppled his marriage and reign. 

His skull was pounding. Down below, Pycelle trembled like a leaf, barely holding up but for the twisted cane he'd walked in with. Without his beard or meek mummer's farce, he seemed just a man. A stupid, stupid man, yes, but just a man still. 

But Rhaegar was unsure about his cry of innocence. 

"Would you have a trial by combat then?" His voice echoed and played against the marble so that it seemed bigger than it was. "You are, of course, entitled to one. Granted that you have sufficient faith in the Seven and whosoever should represent you. I needn't remind you of what your penalty will be should your champion fail to win against mine."

Rhaegar waved forward his own champion. Ser Arthur took slow steps to stand slightly ahead of his Kingsguard brethren. Beneath the golden light spilling in through the windows, Arthur's accoutrements gleamed like crystalline snowfall from its mother of pearl and silver chasings. The most formidable knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, no sane man would be raring for a chance against the Sword of the Morning on any day, let alone a trial by combat. 

Pycelle seemed to come to the same conclusion. Whatever weak man that might dare to champion the accused maester for insanity or glory would be reduced to a mere green boy before Arthur's Dawn. The light went out of Pycelle's eyes. 

"What say you?" Rhaegar urged. "Do you wish for a trial by combat?"

Pycelle shook his head, shaking. "No, Your Grace." 

"Will you admit your guilt then?"

"I am _innocent_ ," Pycelle maintained. 

"But you have no witnesses to testify to this fact. When you examined Queen Lyanna after her miscarriage, you were alone with her. No other maester attended her in that time, acolyte or seasoned, but for you. Is that correct?" The memories of Lyanna's tears on Dragonstone hardened his heart. 

"No, Your Grace, there was no one else. Only myself."

Rhaegar sighed through his nostrils. "Very well then. You have willingly submitted yourself to the king's justice. Your punishment will be chosen by my own discretion. Do you understand that?" 

Pycelle scowled. "That is grossly unfair! I am an innocent man."

"You claim innocence, yet you have no explanation for your false labeling of the queen, you had no second opinion of her body following her miscarriage. You refuse a trial by combat and offer no rebuttal for your cause." Rhaegar stared coldly down. "There is no other choice but to deliberate solely on the price you must pay."

Pycelle stood still, shocked, not even trembling for the sudden levity of his situation. 

Rhaegar stood from his seat and looked out to the hall. "We will reconvene in an hour's time." He marched down the hard steps of his throne and walked out of his hall, his Kingsguard forming behind him.

From the throne room, he went to the king's wing of Maegor's Holdfast. He left all six of his knights outside his apartments and slipped through the reception room, then into the chambers. 

The stained glass window threw colored light across Lyanna's face as she lounged beneath it in a black velvet chaise. She looked up when Rhaegar entered and smiled. "You're back already."

"I took a recess," he explained, coming to sit beside her. He lay his cheek on her belly. "How's the baby treating you?" 

Lyanna snorted softly, running her fingers through his hair. " _Just fine_. I had some broth earlier, so I feel better now." She touched his forehead and drew a line down his cheekbone. "How is the trial going?"

Rhaegar grimaced despite her sweet touch, remembering Pycelle's spotted, lying face. "Maester Pycelle maintains his innocence with truly remarkable fervor. He, however, has no witnesses to attest to that claim." 

Lyanna hummed in the back of her throat. "It's to be combat then?"

Rhaegar lifted from her stomach and propped himself up with one elbow. "No. Pycelle denies his right to a trial by combat. He knows no man will vouch for his cause."

Lyanna's brows furrowed as she frowned. "Then what will happen?"

"Justice belongs to the throne," he told her. "I will decide his innocence or guilt, and the punishment for the latter."

She was quiet then. Lyanna stared at him for a long time, looking at every part of his face with intense scrutiny. Her eyes took on that glassy quality his mother's had a week ago. He suppressed a shiver and asked, "What is it?"

Lyanna took a deep breath. "Rhaegar, you are not your father."

Despite what she said, it felt like an insult. He pulled back. "No," he said, "I'm not..."

She fixed him with those icy, grey eyes. "You should grant mercy to Maester Pycelle."

Rhaegar nearly choked on his own air. "Mercy? You want me to pardon the man who almost destroyed what is mine? No." He shook his head and stood, beginning to pace over their rugs. 

"There is a difference between mercy and pardoning," Lyanna said patiently, but sternly. "You don't want to build your reign on blood, do you? Do you truly wish your first act as king to be the order of murder?"

" _Murder_ ," he seethed, "is no less than what that man deserves, Lyanna. After what he did to you, to me, he should see my sword."

Lyanna narrowed her eyes. "I love your fire, Rhaegar, I really do. But if you don't reign it back, _control it_ , that fire I love will blacken to madness and you will become your father reborn. Aerys was bloodthirsty and paved his reign with the ashes of his friends and opposers alike. Don't become him."

Rhaegar stood frozen in place, watching her. She was right. The dragonfire in him howled for vengeance, but the boy in him that had grown up witnessing his father's madness overpowered whatever wrath was boiling in his veins. 

He could not become, _would not_ become, his father. He would rather be Aegon the Dragonlord than Aerys the Scab King any day. "You're right," he whispered, feeling defeated almost. He came back to Lyanna's side and kissed her lightly. "You are right. I will not execute him. I will think of another punishment."

Lyanna nodded. "Good. Besides, whatever he has or has not done, death by Fire is too clean an end for Pycelle. The Wall would sooner suit him." 

Rhaegar sighed and dragged a finger across her jaw. "Or exile," he murmured. "Come back with me to Court. I would have you by my side as I grant this weasel mercy." He smiled. "After all, ice tempers fire."

After she dressed in silks and her queen's crown, he and Lyanna walked hand in hand to the Great Hall where Court was once again assembled. The people went to their knees before the royals, though many still craned their heads for a peek at their queen. 

At the base of his high iron throne, a silver chair had been placed for Lyanna. She took a seat and stared straight ahead as Rhaegar climbed up the steep steps at her back. When he, too, sat, Pycelle was brought back out. 

When he stopped in the center of the room and the room quieted, Rhaegar spoke. "Grand Maester Pycelle, I have come to a conclusion regarding your punishment." He glanced down to see the light catch on the mother of pearl and rubies of Lyanna's crown. 

When he looked at Pycelle, all he saw was fear. "I will offer you two options to choose from in lieu of death. 

"The first is lifelong exile. You will board a ship of my choosing and be taken to Essos; you will be allowed to take your earthly possessions, but only those not acquired from the Citadel or the crown. You shall never be allowed back on Westerosi soil on threat of death. 

"Your second option is the Wall. I will permit you to travel North to take the black and man the Wall for the good of the realm. You may even find honor there amongst those you would vow as brothers. 

"Either way, you will be stripped of your office and chain, and be officially shunned by the Citadel. So," he took a breath, "what will you choose?"

Pycelle stared upward in disbelief. Decades he had been a man of the Citadel and the highest maester in the land, and with one word, he would be robbed of it all. Still, all of Court knew he must make a decision or pay with his life's blood. 

Pycelle cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I shall take the black, Your Grace." His voice wobbled. "Thank you for your mercy."

Rhaegar clenched his jaw and said, "Do not thank me, thank your queen. _She_ is the one who advocated for your mercy."

Pycelle's eyes went wide as eggs. He looked at Lyanna and bowed slightly. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Rhaegar only saw the dip of Lyanna's crown. 

"Take Pycelle to his chambers, Ser Arthur," Rhaegar called down. "Allow him to gather his things. The party to go North will leave before nightfall." Arthur nodded and escorted Pycelle from the throne hall. 

"The last item of business," Rhaegar said as Court rustled restlessly, "is assigning a new Grand Maester." A few shocked faces stared back at him. "Maester Luwin, please come forward."

Luwin emerged from the section where Brandon and Benjen stood, kindly and grandfatherly in his white-and-grey maester's robe. He would need to change them out for red and black. He went to his knees and looked up. "Your Grace."

"Luwin, I would name you new Grand Maester of the realm and an official part of my small council."

Luwin blinked several times. "Your Grace, it is an honor, but I serve Lord Eddard of Winterfell. My duty is to obey my lord."

Rhaegar had known the man would object; he had an air of wisdom and loyalty about him. "I have already corresponded with my good-brother, Lord Eddard, as well as with the Citadel. A new maester has been sent to serve Winterfell so that you may be here. With me and mine."

"Your Grace," Luwin breathed, "I am forever grateful for the honor you bestow on me."

"The honor," Rhaegar objected with good nature, "is all mine. I need a man that I can trust with my House." Luwin bowed his head in respect. "Your belongings will be sent North by riders of Lord Eddard's choosing. Officers of the Citadel will travel to King's Landing to perform your officiation."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Luwin repeated. 

Rhaegar stood and looked out to his subjects. "Court and trial are now over. You all may leave." There was a murmuring of respect and thanks as lords, ladies, and knights bowed once more, and then they were ushered out by the heralds and Gold Cloaks. 

It took more than a few minutes for the room to clear, but when it did, only himself, Lyanna, and his guards were left. "Give us the hall," he said to his swords. They dispersed immediately and Rhaegar went down his throne, coming to sit on the fifth step from the bottom. 

"Lyanna," he called softly, watching as she unclenched her fingers from around the chair's rests. "Come here."

Her still face softened as she drifted over to him. She broke into a smile when he pulled her on his lap. He put his mouth against her neck and breathed deeply. 

Her voice was soft as the wind when she spoke. "That was harder than I thought it would be."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Watching Pycelle get punished. I know he was not perfect, but seeing him ragged and torn down...it wasn't easy to take."

Rhaegar kissed her. "I'm quite sure justice isn't meant to be easy." Lyanna nodded, distracted. "Look at me."

When she did, he was nearly taken away by her loveliness. Those big grey eyes, the pale, perfect skin, the full mouth. "Let us speak of other things that do not make you sad."

Her mouth twisted wryly. "Like what?"

"Like," he dragged his mouth across her neck, "how I am taking you to the Isle of Faces once Maester Luwin has been officiated, and marrying you beneath a weirwood."

 _That_ brought a real smile to her face. "You'll get to see a true heart tree," she murmured, "not some oak with no face and no gods to watch over us. And perhaps one day you will get to see Winterfell's godswood, too."

"Perhaps one day." He chuckled softly and shook his head fondly. "But in a few weeks' time, we will swear ourselves before a hundred _true_ heart trees at the Isle of Faces, and then we will go to Dragonstone so you can deliver our prince."

Lyanna sat up straight, amused. "What makes you think it's a boy?" She lay her hand over her stomach. 

Rhaegar thought of his dreams, of _that boy_ , the one who had haunted him day and night for months. The dark-haired, lean youth with _his_ eyes and Lyanna's face.

Rhaegar hid a smile and pressed another kiss to her jaw. She smelled of winter. "I just have a feeling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I have a new Rhaegar/Lyanna story that is going up this weekend; the first chapter will go up this Saturday!!**
> 
> **Little tease: the initials of the title are WHCBB ;)**


	74. The Prince That Was Promised

**EIGHT MONTHS LATER**

Lyanna was on fire. 

She felt as if her entire body was being ripped apart from the inside out, with claws and teeth, wings and fangs spreading her skin and bones until she thought she would pass out from the sheer pain of it all. 

Lyanna whimpered, too exhausted from the torture to properly scream anymore. She felt hot and cold at the same time, craving both heat and ice to soothe her flesh. Chilled to the core, her entire body was covered in goosebumps, but her face was flushed as if she had bared it to an oven. 

"It's almost time, Your Grace," Grand Maester Luwin soothed her in a soft voice, "just a little bit longer."

Lyanna's cries bubbled inside her chest, but only a few hot tears leaked from her eyes. She felt her hands begin to shake as she balled them to fists. "You have to get Rhaegar," she whispered, "I can't do this without him." She wasn't sure if she could this _at all_. 

Luwin frowned from where he sat between her splayed legs, but it was Dragonstone's maester, Cole, that spoke up. "The birthing room is no place for men, let alone _kings_."

Lyanna gritted her teeth against a sudden rush of agonizing pain, but the fire Maester Cole's words ignited forced her to open her eyes and stare him down. 

"You are about to witness the birth of my child." She thought of her dream, the one with the Wall glistening behind her, and that dark-haired boy with the wolf. "The birth of a future _king_. Do not tell me they have no place here." She swallowed, sweat running down her skin. "You find my husband or so help me, I will ensure you receive the same fate as Pycelle."

Maester Cole froze at the threat, then raced away with not another word. No doubt, the looming reality of serving the Wall for the rest of his days encouraged haste beneath his feet. 

When he was gone, Luwin chuckled lightly. "This babe inspires fire, Your Grace, if I may be so bold."

Lyanna could have laughed, but everything was too sore, too tired, too leaden with attempting to bring forth life. "I just want my husband," she whispered finally. 

"Well," Luwin murmured, looking close between her legs, "it seems like it is time." She felt a pressure at her loins, but it seemed light as a feather compared to the ripping heat in her belly. 

Lyanna opened her eyes. "Truly?"

Luwin gave her a soft smile. "Yes, Your Grace. It is time."

* * *

The scent of salt and smoke was heavy as a curtain within the halls of Dragonstone, leaving Rhaegar lightheaded, but buzzing with certainty, as he waited. 

His prince, the Prince That Was Promised, was coming, heralded by his signs: born amidst salt and smoke, his blood of ice and fire. 

A fresh scream echoed eerily through the castle, sending a chilling tingle up Rhaegar's spine. He'd been kept out of the birthing room as soon as Lyanna had started shrieking in pain early that morning; Luwin had suggested Rhaegar wait within the halls, for he'd need all the space and peace possible to calm Lyanna enough so that she could begin to birth. 

It was torture to leave, torture to watch as her body contorted in agony, her throat being torn apart by the screams. But Rhaegar waited like he should, hoping and praying nothing would go wrong. For his love or his son. 

Because he knew it was a boy, knew it right down to the very core of his bones and blood in his veins. Prince Jon Targaryen was coming, and his mother was fighting tooth and nail to bring him into this world. 

Around the corner, Dragonstone's lanky maester came rushing forward. Cole was sweating and wild-eyed, panting from the exertion of his pace. "Her Grace has requested you," he choked out. "I tried to tell her the birthing room was no place for men, but she insists. I'm sorry, Your Grace, I tried-"

Rhaegar held up a hand. "I will be there for the birth of my child. Take me to her."

Maester Luwin had insisted on moving Lyanna to a bigger room, the room with the largest window so as to allow in the fresh air from outside. But when Maester Cole escorted Rhaegar inside, all he could smell was the salt of the sea and the smoke from the volcano. 

Rhaegar's heart thrummed violently. 

Lyanna was laying slack in bed, her face both red from exertion and pale from exhaustion. Her hair was limp with sweat and her hands shook from where they lay at her sides. 

Rhaegar went right to her and kissed her cheek, coming away with the salt of her sweat and tears. "How are you feeling?"

Lyanna sniffled and croaked with a hoarse voice, "Like death."

"Don't say that," he tried to say lightly. But in the back of his mind, his thoughts warred an epic battle; he thought of the signs of salt and smoke, the heralding of their prince. On the opposing side was the memory of Lyanna laying limp and pale in a pool of her own blood in White Sword Tower, their first little one having been killed before it could ever live. 

Rhaella, their little girl, the princess that never was. She had died, and her mother nearly close behind, and now he was staring the gods right in the face as his promised prince sucked every ounce of life and force from Lyanna. 

He was not sure what he would do if he lost her in exchange for his son.

"Your Grace," Luwin suddenly murmured, coming to once again sit between Lyanna's open knees. "It is time to start pushing now."

Lyanna made not a sound. Rhaegar bent and put his mouth at her ear. "Do you think you can do this?"

She nodded weakly, as if the act of talking would drain her of her last bit of energy. 

"I love you," Rhaegar told her fiercely, pulling back to look into her eyes. "You can do this."

"Your Grace," Luwin said, "you'll need to start pushing. On my count..."

On his count, Lyanna filled the air with terrible, hair-raising screams that seemed loud enough to wake the stone dragons from their eternal slumber. Her throat was ravaged as she shrieked in pain, sitting forward slightly as she tried with all her might to push and push and _push_. 

Rhaegar did not know how long the pushing went on. Time was a blur that turned one moment into the next with a warped, piecey style. 

Lyanna held on to one of his hands with a mighty force, sharing the pain she bore with him. She screamed so hard, so loud, that eventually her voice seemed to give out, and all that was left was a hoarse croak reminiscent of the time Aerys had nearly choked her to death. 

"I see the head," Luwin announced seriously, "Lyanna dear, I'm going to need you to give everything you have with these final pushes. Do you understand?"

Lyanna squeezed her eyes closed, heaving with the force of her ragged breathing. But she nodded all the same, albeit weakly. "Yes," she rasped. 

"Good," Luwin murmured, "on my count, push."

On his count, she pushed. She pushed with everything she had, her face turning red as a cherry, sweat dripping down her neck, her hands balled and white-knuckled. And she did it all in complete and utter silence - not a moan, not a cry, not even a whisper. 

It was until a baby broke its cry that there was any noise at all. Maester Cole rushed forward with blankets, coming to clean the babe that had been taken from Lyanna's body as Luwin severed the cord. 

Rhaegar stood in utter fascination, staring at the life that he and the love of his life, his _ice_ , had made together. Squalling and dark-haired and small, he yearned to hold his prince. 

"It is a boy," Cole told him, though unnecessarily. He took another pile of clean blankets and began to swaddle the babe. "What is his name, Your Grace?"

Rhaegar smiled, filled with a joy the likes of which he had never known. "Jon," he murmured. "Prince Jon Targaryen." He turned his joy to Lyanna, eager to share in the wealth of excitement, but stopped cold. 

She looked peaceful there in her bed, pale and lovely, completely serene and relaxed, her eyes closed to the world. Not even her chest moved, as if just the act of breathing would disturb her. "Maester Luwin," Rhaegar called out shakily as he rushed to her side. 

Luwin had never left his spot between her legs, now splayed jankily. He observed her quietly, ignoring Rhaegar's impending hysteria. He poked and prodded, his frown turning into a grimace.

"Lyanna," Rhaegar nearly shouted, touching her face, her hands, her neck. She was ice cold. "Lyanna, wake up, please wake up." He lifted one of her eyelids, hoping to disturb her from her...rest...but all he saw was a glassy grey eye, unseeing. 

"Your Grace," Luwin said in a voice like iron, all kindness and propriety gone from his demeanor, "you will need to wait outside now."

"No," Rhaegar asserted immediately, with a fierce denial. "I won't. What's wrong with her? What happened?"

" _Your Grace_ ," Luwin seemed to snap, his ever-present patience finally breaking under stress. "Please. Wait outside. I need the peace and quiet to help her now. Cole! Give your king his son!"

It all happened so fast.

Maester Cole came forward, shifting the tiny little baby from his arms into Rhaegar's, then led him outside and away from his wife and queen who lay deaf to the world on her birthing bed.

Her blankets were stained with crimson. 

It was the last thing he saw before Cole crept back inside and closed the door. Rhaegar just stood silent and still in shock, unbelieving that had truly just been done to him. 

Had he not had a fragile babe in his arms, he would have fought like every hell on earth to stay with Lyanna. It was not right to leave her alone. But she would be fine...Luwin would surely not deprive Rhaegar of his last moments with his wife if she wasn't going to be _just fine_...

Jon cried out sharply. 

Rhaegar looked down. And saw the boy from his dreams. The air was stolen from his chest, his palms grew clammy. Jon was just a little thing, just a breath of life really. But...he would have recognized _that boy_ anywhere. 

"Jon," he breathed in wonder, momentarily distracted from the plight of his wife. The baby ceased its cries immediately, by some source of magic. He opened his eyes, dark eyes, and looked up at his father. 

Rhaegar laughed in amazement. "You're here," he whispered, shifting him tighter to his body. The realization of the prophecy hit him like a warhammer to the chest. "Finally."

The babe lay still and quiet, just staring. Uncomprehending of what lay ahead for him. 

"Your name is Jon," Rhaegar told him quietly. "Your mother chose it. She wanted you named after the King of Winter, Jon Stark. I had meant to name you Aegon after the Dragonlord, but..." That dark hair, those eyes, that face. "Jon is perfect."

He listened for a sign that Lyanna was awake, but heard nothing. He closed his eyes, trying to keep hope. Luwin would not make him wait outside while Lyanna died within. _He wouldn't._

In his arms, Jon gurgled. 

Rhaegar distracted himself by talking again. "Your mother has been waiting a long time for you. She's been so eager to meet you. We both have." Jon scrunched up his face, as if to cry, but made no noise. Rhaegar's heart stung painfully. A child without a mother was a tragedy, and fire without ice was just destruction. 

"Nothing is going to happen to your mother," he told Jon fiercely, "she will live a long and happy life, and together we will give you siblings to grow up with. Siblings to help you fulfill your destiny. 

"You'll grow up with them; maybe two sisters or two brothers. Or perhaps one of each. And you'll have Dany to play alongside, a companion for the good times and a light for the bad. 

"And your mother and I, we will be there too. To help guide you, to help you become the man you're fated to be." He studied his son's face, so small and pale, _beautiful_ , in the likeness of his mother already. "Your coming was foreseen hundreds of years ago. You're going to be the king one day..." 

Rhaegar sighed. "A great one. Being king is not easy, but you were meant for it. _Born_ for it." Jon blinked. "It is a heavy burden for just a small little thing, but it's supposed to be." Rhaegar smiled. "You were the prince that was promised."

When the door suddenly swung open behind them, it took everything in him not to shove Maester Cole aside and race to Lyanna's side. "How is she?" He asked instead, impatiently, restless to be with her again. 

"Awake," was all Cole had to say for Rhaegar to slip past him and stride inside. 

He nearly cried out in relief when Lyanna turned her head to smile weakly at him. Luwin, blood-soaked from his wrists to elbows, bowed. "Forgive me for my harsh words earlier, Your Grace, I was under stress."

The bundle in Rhaegar's arms was a comforting weight. "No need to apologize, Maester Luwin. I am only grateful that you helped Lyanna and my son." He smiled at Lyanna. "How is she?"

"Well, Your Grace, I managed to stop the bleeding. She passed out from the pain and stress of the birth. I will need to watch her closely over the next few days, but I do not anticipate any more problems."

Rhaegar breathed a sigh of relief, eager to finally be alone with his family. "I am eternally thankful, Maester. You may leave now to clean up and rest."

Luwin bowed once more and said, "Congratulations on your prince, Your Graces." And then he left.

Alone, Lyanna's eyes locked in on the little babe in Rhaegar's arms. "Jon," she whispered, lips parting. 

Rhaegar came to sit at the side of her bed, noticing the bedding had been stripped of its soil. "Prince Jon Targaryen," he said quietly. 

"He's so beautiful," Lyanna rasped in wonder, holding her arms out for him. Rhaegar shifted Jon to her, ever so carefully, then wrapped his arm around the beginning of his family. 

"He looks like his mother," he murmured, smiling down at the child they had made together. Just the first in a trio, he knew. _The dragon has three heads_.

Every second of his life had led up to this moment, to the birth of his prince. The good times, the bad, the ugly, the glittering. The tourney, the wedding, those months of solitude and distrust and darkness. The fire, the miscarriage, their sweet little Rhaella clipped of her wings. 

The seven months apart and the fiery passion ignited of their reunion. Every second had brought him to Lyanna, and Lyanna had led him to Jon. 

Lyanna seemed utterly, irrevocably enamored with Jon, stroking a finger down his cheek. She glanced up briefly, meeting Rhaegar's eyes. "Will you write him a song?" she asked.

His heart fluttered violently, nearly expanding to burst from the sheer _completeness_ of his life. "No, he already has a song," he murmured, smiling softly. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire."


	75. The End to a Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: this epilogue takes place many years into the future, and thus takes place years _after_ the sequel. **
> 
>  
> 
> **Yes, I will be doing a sequel that focuses on their rule, and Jon growing up.**

**EPILOGUE**

They were lucky, Rhaegar knew in the end, to have lived such long and wonderful lives together. To experience both a long summer and the rebirth of dragons to House Targaryen, to see magic in the world once more of wide-spanning wings soaring overhead and a dreadful army of the dead that marched through ice and snow. 

All of it: the laughs, the tears, the dragons, the dead, ice and fire clashing in a battle of dawn, it had all been realized of an ancient prophecy that demanded Rhaegar meet Lyanna, to create the lives that which would bring about the Eternal Summer, driving away winter once and for all. And for that, he was forever grateful for the life he had been given.

The years of Rhaegar's reign were steeped in love and compassion, happiness and prosperity, the likes of which had not been seen since the age of King Jaehaerys I and his Good Queen Alyssane. Rhaegar sat a firm, steady seat upon the Iron Throne, and meted out good graces and wealth, freedom and safety to those who served and subjected him well. 

It was often rejoiced that King Rhaegar and his queen had brought about the long summer of magic's birth, keeping his people fed and their love and loyalty to his feet under the veil of blue skies and soaring dragons. His reign was one of many changes, shifting council and prospering vassals and smallfolk, and the reemergence of all that had been lost to the world. 

And later, much later, the long summer drifted and winter came and, with it, an army of death, only to be staved off and destroyed by the heads of an ancient prophecy . . . 

. . . But that was another story for another time.

* * *

King Rhaegar's administration saw two Hands.

Lord Tywin died only two years after the start of Rhaegar's reign, found fallen and broken from a hard fall from a secret tunnel discovered to lead to Chataya's, an infamous brothel on the Street of Silk. His death was a scandal and an embarrassment to House Lannister, clouding their once mighty prestige, and as such, his daughter Cersei was seen as lesser stock. 

As all of the Great Lords were married off or sufficient with heirs, Cersei was matched and married to Lord Jon Connington, formerly of the small council, by firm suggestion of the king. The two married at Casterly Rock and retired to Griffin's Roost for the rest of their days, without children or clout, merely humbled subjects to the royals evermore. 

Tyrion Lannister, as young as he was, rose to lordship over Casterly Rock and, over the years, built back the power once lost to his family's name, as well as forging a longstanding friendship with the crown that, much later on, resulted in the dwarf lord being named Master of Coin. 

Immediately following the death of Lord Tywin, Brandon Stark was made Hand of the King, promoted from his office as Master of Laws, which eventually was given to Stannis of the House Baratheon, who was a firm and just man with a cutting general's mind. 

But it was always said that the People's Queen, Lyanna, was King Rhaegar's most trusted advisor. He sought her council above all others, and kept her at his side through all. She was a well-loved queen, a magnificent and influential politician, and mother to three healthy dragonwolves of the king's beloved prophecy. 

Their first was Jon Targaryen, the First of His Name and future King of Westeros. 

Jon was a quiet boy, more eager to listen than speak . . . but when provoked, he had his mother's tongue. And his mother's face as well, narrow and pale, with bone structure that was chipped from ice, but with Rhaegar's dark eyes, somewhere in the realm of almost-black until the light hit them and turned them into a brilliant indigo. 

Jon grew to be a peerless swordsman, his skills surpassing even those of Ser Arthur and Jaime Lannister and Barristan the Bold. On his twenty-fifth name day, he was gifted by his father the Valyrian steel sword Fire, and entered the tourney lists in gleaming black armor encrusted with gemstones and jewels, just as Rhaegar had before him. 

Lyanna and Rhaegar's second child, a daughter, came two years later. They named her Rhae, for her father. The girl was the exact opposite of her elder brother: long, spiraling white-gold hair, a heart-shaped face, and eyes like molten silver. And she was lively as well, a beguiling little princess from the days she could walk and talk and charm. 

Rhae was often seen reading by day and running by night, her spirited laugh filling the halls of the Red Keep like music. She had her father's beauty and his mind as well, but her cunning was all her own. She studied laws and wisdoms, archery and waterdancing, and often sat with her brother Jon at their father's council meetings. _The king's second prince_ , her uncle Benjen of the Kingsguard often jested, for her prowess and intellect. 

Their third child came six years after Jon, four years after Rhae. Valarr, they named him, for his mess of silver hair and pale eyes like the petals of violet flowers. The most troublesome of the three children, Valarr had the wolf's blood, but the dragon's looks. 

Tall and slim as a spear, he had wavy silver hair, pale purple eyes like a lilac morning, and a tongue that could cut like a knife. Valarr was a trial worth twenty children. Prone to deception and truancy, he often snuck out to Flea Bottom with blue dye in his hair, neglecting his studies to mingle amongst the smallfolk and unsavory, like his mother in her youth. 

He was a natural at evading his guards, and more than once had slipped from Ser Jaime and Ser Arthur's watchful eyes. A wolf in dragon's clothing, Valarr tried his parents' patience, until it came time for him to be fostered. 

They sent him to Winterfell, to foster with his uncle and aunt and their five children, in the hopes that the merciless North would freeze out the wolf's blood. 

They should have known better. 

Valarr fell in love with his cousin Arya, and the two secretly married in the godswood of Winterfell. Though initially furious, Rhaegar and Lyanna accepted the marriage, funding the couple's travels as they explored the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. 

Rhaegar and Lyanna lived long enough to see each of their children to fully grow, to see each of them wed and happy. 

On his eighteenth name day, Jon was married to Daenerys in the Sept of Baelor, as the sun shone through the crystal towers like a million rainbowbeams. Afterward, they'd ridden through the city, the Dark Prince and the Silver Princess, and received the love of their common folk, and danced the night away with merriment at their ceremony. 

Rhae married Willas Tyrell before the High Septon just after her seventeenth name day, resplendent in ivory as she wed her young groom. She retired to Highgarden afterward, spending her future advising her lord husband and taking up many hobbies with her new good sister and cousins.

* * *

After a long bout of fever in her fifty-eighth year, Queen Lyanna died. 

Heartbroken and lost, King Rhaegar rode North to bring her bones to Winterfell; it was the first and only time he had ever seen her home. He rode with a guard of sixty men, wary of protecting his wife's remains. 

She was buried in a tomb within a mausoleum Ned Stark had erected near the heart tree in the godswood. The mausoleum was forged of stone, carved with runes of the First Men, and protected by a glass dome ceiling with the sun and the snow and the clouds above her. 

Rhaegar had knelt at her tomb and statue all day and night, the likeness of which was so uncanny, he spent his tears within the first hour just staring at it. After, when his legs ached too much to kneel any longer, he went outside to the heart tree, placing his hand over its melancholy face. 

He imagined Lyanna, somewhere in the heavens of her gods, could hear him as he spoke.

"Oh, my love," he'd sighed with his throat tightening, "I am so sorry I never married you in this godswood, at your home. It is my only regret in our life together." He ran his fingers over the etchings in the tree's bark, tears burning down his cheeks. 

He'd gripped the tree tightly, his heart aching so fiercely, he thought he might pass out from the sheer pain of it. "If only you were here," he whispered, chest burning, "I would marry you every single day for the rest of my life . . ."

Rhaegar Targaryen died less than a year later. In the comfort of his bed, the king was found with the breath gone from his chest, the light absent from his amethyst eyes. His skin was cold and life no longer thrived in his veins. 

Some speculated foul play, grasping for desperate answers at the death of their beloved dragon. Others whispered of dark sorcery used to fell Rhaegar, spreading black tales to make sense of the tragedy. 

In truth, with Lyanna's bones entombed within the mausoleum in the godswood of Winterfell and her soul resting in the heavens, Rhaegar's heart no longer had use to beat, to _go on_. 

He went to bed one night, _their_ bed, and felt a peace so deep that he immediately fell asleep, his dreams full of Lyanna and mismatched armor and blue roses and the Isle of Faces. 

Between one moment and the next, Rhaegar's heart stopped and his soul departed, finally, _blissfully_ departed to once more meet his lady love in the sky. 

King Jon Targaryen himself stood vigil at his father's body, wearing the same archived armor Rhaegar had worn all those years ago. The same armor worn when his mother had been presented with a wreath of roses blue as frost. 

And though it was not the custom, Rhaegar's ashes were taken north to Winterfell, where Ned Stark had prepared a second tomb for his good-brother - the tomb that sat right next to Lyanna's in her mausoleum beneath the canopy of the heart tree, so that his sister and her love could rest in peace, side by side for all of eternity. 

And so was the tale of King Rhaegar, the Silver Dragon, and Queen Lyanna, his Winter Rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This epilogue takes place years after the sequel occurs. The sequel will cover the reign of Rhaegar and Lyanna, and Jon and Rhae and Valarr and Dany growing up into teenagers.**


End file.
